Corrosive
by wcgreen
Summary: Hate is an acid. It eats at the victims, the perpetrators, and the detectives of the SV unit. This story follows "Scarlet Letters" in the series.
1. The Calm Before The Storm

A/N: since the 16th Precinct does not exist, I've chosen to put it in the parish of this church. Yes, I know the NYPD uses "Desk Officer" or "Desk Lieutenant", but it doesn't sound right to me and it's my AU.

The Church of Saint Michael  
W. 34th Street  
21 June

_One candle for Brewster's shift, one for Stabler's... I light these and pray that Saint Michael and all God's holy angels will protect us and keep us safe today...._

A simple morning ritual in an almost empty church. The coins Cragen slid into the votive stand's metal receptacle rang loud enough to disturb a dark-haired woman kneeling in a pew across the sanctuary. She raised her head, narrowed her eyes and scowled at him.

Sorry to disturb you, but the Altar Society ladies will come after me if I don't pay up....

He shrugged off her scorn while considering a third candle for the CompStat meeting he was about to attend.

_Nothing like standing at 7 a.m. in front of the Executive Staff and a giant display that pinpoints every unsolved Manhattan sex crime...it's enough to make archangels tremble...._

The thought of the Executive Staff, especially First Deputy Commissioner Tony Balzano, sneering at him drew his hand toward the candle, but Cragen left it unlit.

_Our numbers prove I do the job better than anyone else...it won't get me promoted, but our close rate does protect us from the wrath of powerful assholes...._

The official purpose of meeting with those powerful assholes, a/k/a NYPD commissioners and reps from the district attorney's and mayor's offices, was "to foster a team approach to problem solving, and ensure that crime and quality of life problems identified at the meeting can be immediately discussed and quickly addressed through the development and implementation of creative and comprehensive solutions."

_In other words, we get beat down for our job performance whenever it's less than perfect...._

Despite the capacity crowd, only Howie Brewster and Ted Reyes, the shift's admin assistant, sat near Cragen for the meeting. Howie blew it off with a crack about preferring a comfortable chair over standing for three hours while Cragen ignored the two empty spaces across the table from him.

Around them, the videowalls and plasma screens of the Emergency Operations Center displayed the current statistical graphics for the Manhattan Patrol Borough. As the meeting progressed, one screen displayed the crime scene under discussion; the live feed came from the city's security cameras or the D.O.T cameras watching the roads and bridges of New York City.

Al Rogello's getting reamed a new one over his Clarkson Street shooting... live feed of the street memorial for the dead passers-by doesn't help any... after years of these meetings, you'd think they would stop expecting us to catch the perps by some arbitrary deadline... make the humps schedule their crimes and we'll schedule their arrests....

Cragen's own turn in the hot seat was short, consisting mostly of praise for Stabler and Benson's capture of serial rapist Robert Cusick and Otten and Sofarelli's arrest of kidnapper and molester Stephen Rollins. Howie answered questions about the unit's on-going investigation into the posting of amateur porn videos from local high school students—"Boys and Girls Gone Wild" as it had been dubbed by One P.P.

_Howie flinches every time he hears that name... he says it trivializes the problem and he's right... someone is conning these kids into taping and posting their sex acts... whether they realize it or not, they're being used and abused and we need to catch the bastards doing it...._

No one mentioned Operation Chestnut or its aftermath, but Balzano's stern frown and glare at Cragen was countered only by a slight smile and nod from Chief Conrad. Every other NYPD brass present kept a carefully neutral expression.

_Oh, well...._

As the meeting ended and everyone left the EOC, Cragen made mental note of those commanders who ignored him and those who took the time to shake his hand, speak with him, and commiserate over his broken wrist.

_More than I thought... maybe Richardson's right—things are starting to change...._

Sixteenth Precinct  
Seventh Floor Lounge  
21 June: 3:45 p.m.

George Huang leaned against the railing overlooking the SVU squad room, his hands cupped around his borrowed mug. To the officers and support staff cutting through the lounge, he was a man lost in thought.

_It's been a week since this shift suffered major physical and emotional disruption. Some distress is to be expected, but ongoing problems need to be noted. From up here, I can observe interactions without affecting them...._

Directly below him, by the coffee pot, a thickset man in his early thirties, 5'10", 205, brown and brown joked with a women in her late twenties, 5'6", 125, ash blonde and blue.

_Detectives Fred Tierney and his partner Tammy White. Both are short-timers—as soon as their posting here is over, they'll move on. They know that "SVU" looks good when it comes to promotions or plum assignments, but only if they do the two years—no more and no less... anyone who leaves early is "weak;" anyone who stays longer is "weird"... Tierney and White were not involved in Operation Chestnut or Chief Sullivan's takedown... no one holds that against them... they are competent, but not part of the gang...._

Huang surveyed the squad room. Elliot Stabler and Olivia Benson were by the lockers, Elliot leaning against them while Olivia put her purse away. Stabler had loosened his tie, his only concession to the warm June weather. Olivia shed her cotton sweater, tossing it over the back of her chair before sitting down at her desk.

_Those two aren't going anywhere any time soon... a shame, really... they could easily reach the point where SVU is harming them, both emotionally and professionally... Olivia is so bound up with the victims that it's becoming more about vengeance than justice... Elliot has wrecked his marriage and what Sullivan said about his being one punch away from a psych discharge is close to true... I've discussed the possibility of a transfer for them with Don, but he doesn't see it my way... I hate to think he'd put his unit's close rate over his people's well-being…._

As Huang watched, Benson tipped her head towards Cragen's office; her partner responded with a frown before taking his chair at his desk.

_I listened to the tapes: Sullivan baiting and berating Don and Elliot, then Commissioner Richardson's team interviewing them about their actions... Elliot truly thought his captain had betrayed his people. His lack of faith hurts Don deeply, partly because Don was risking his own job and pension to counter Sullivan's machinations, but more because this is the second time Don has faced this situation. Since he didn't back O'Farrell's dishonesty then, Don believes that Elliot should have trusted him now.…_

Huang sipped his tea as he pondered the matter.

_Elliot doesn't apologize well and Don won't forgive easily... in his mind, Elliot's lack of faith is tied to Sullivan's betrayal, Lau and Eristoff's attacks, and his own embarrassment at his role in ending Wilkerson's blackmail scheme... Don doesn't like feeling powerless yet he had to buckle under several times to achieve his goal—to make things right for the department, his people, and those murdered officers. It cost him more than just his dignity... it reminded Don that the reward for honesty is a permanently stalled career—something hard for a proud man like Don to accept...._

Through the open blinds of the commander's office, Huang saw Cragen at his desk, talking on the phone and rhythmically poking the rubber end of a pencil under his cast, scratching what appeared to be a nasty itch.

_Not that Don's dignity is a small matter... no amount of anything would entice me to fake intercourse for IAB's cameras... his interactions with Judith Otten since then have been strictly by-the-book and she returns the formality... neither wants to risk their reputations any further...._

He took a step to his right, a move that gave him clear view of Otten's desk. She was there talking with Alphonse 'Couch' Sofarelli, who sat at the desk adjoining hers. Sofarelli was dressed like Stabler—gray suit with maroon-striped tie, a look matched by Otten's tailored pants suit with blouse.

_Judith and Al also concern me... Judith because she committed a cop-on-cop shooting, justified though it was, and both partners because the stress of handling SVU cases is beginning to affect them... the next weeks will show whether they can handle the strain or not... I told Don they would be fine, but only time will prove me right...._

He watched the two newcomers converse—Couch doing most of the talking, Judith listening. Without warning, she stiffened her posture, the motion so slight that, had Huang not been looking directly at her, he would not have noticed it.

The psychiatrist shifted his gaze to see what irritated the older woman.

_Only change is the arrival of Detectives Munch and Tutuola. I know that John said unkind words about the supposed affair. Surely Judith knows by now that the scorn and contempt was faked...._

Behind Otten's now-turned back, Fin and John were getting settled at their desks. Fin nodded in response to a greeting from Couch and one from Judith said over her shoulder. John propped his feet on his lower drawer and called out to Sofarelli, but not to Otten.

Huang raised his mug to hide a frown.

_They are ignoring each other. In a high-pressure environment that attracts Type A personalities, conflict is to be expected, but so is professionalism—perhaps the dynamic between John and Judith also bears watching...._

Huang checked his watch against the squad's wall clock.

_Four p.m.… time to slip away before someone decides that I really do spy on them…._

265 W. 139th Street  
Apartment 605  
21 June

Stabler stood in the center of the apartment's main room, his shield clipped to the lapel of his jacket.

_Hardwood floors, nice job on the crown molding and the corner fireplace—no wonder it takes four tenants to afford the rent… but I'm not here to admire the interior…._

He drew in a deep breath through his nose.

_We're also not here to notice the stale smell of burnt illegal plant leaves…._

He stared at the tenants, all of whom were crowded together on a futon set against the wall by the fireplace.

_All female, Caucasian, early to mid-twenties… one Goth—looks like she's wearing John's hand-me-downs, one thin with legs like a marathon runner, one in a "Worship Me!" t-shirt and more eye shadow than my daughters wear in a month, one in sweats with her hair pulled back in a bun… nothing in common but the rent payment and that's all we know about them… the Goth answered our knock and let us in, but then nothing but sideways looks between them. Even Olivia struck out trying to get them to talk to us…._

Benson was leaning against the kitchen entrance to his left, eyeing the four women as intently as he was. She noticed his attention on her and raised an eyebrow—that and her pursed lips told him that her patience was wearing thin.

He turned back to the four on the futon.

"Look," he said. "Someone here called and said they wanted to talk to SVU detectives. We're here. What do you want to tell us?"

One more round of glances and "Worship Me!" swallowed then spoke up.

"It's Bridget. She lives one floor down. We think someone attacked her."

Benson took a step closer.

"What makes you think so?"

The runner shrugged as she said, "She used to hang out with us—come up and split a pizza or something, talk about her job, the guys she was seeing. Couple of weeks ago—"

"—I saw her getting her mail," the Goth picked up the story. "I said "Hi" and she almost jumped through the mail slot. She kept her head down and she was all hunched over like something hurt or she didn't want me looking at her."

"Yeah," the bun girl said, "same with me. I tried to get Bridge to go for coffee, but she just shook her head really hard and ran back to her apartment. She doesn't act like that normally—she's really outgoing."

All four women nodded their heads in agreement.

Stabler caught Olivia's gaze and also nodded.

A change in behavior like that could be caused by physical or emotional trauma… can't hurt to check it out….

He waited while his partner recorded Bridget's full name and address then asked what else the four women knew about her.

"She's a Home Health Aide; she does things for people who are sick or disabled so they can stay home instead of going to a nursing home."

"She isn't seeing anyone—at least, she wasn't last time she came over."

"Yeah—she was complaining about being with us and not out with someone."

Olivia wrote that down also with the names and cell numbers of the four women. Elliot then thanked them for being concerned about their friend.

"Just don't tell her we told you," Worship Me! told him. "It might be nothing and then she'll be mad at us for butting in."

Elliot waiting until he and his partner were on the stair landing before he spoke.

"With friends like that...."

Olivia's flat stare showed her disagreement.

"At least they called," she said. "Obviously, Bridget didn't."

"Let's make sure of that."

A call to the unit confirmed that the supposed victim had not been involved in any reported assaults or other crimes. Elliot stepped aside and motioned for Olivia to take the lead.

"Bridget Shanahan," he said as they walked to her apartment door. "Think she's Irish?"

Benson smiled as she held her shield before the peephole and knocked on the door.

"Ms Shanahan? NYPD. May we talk with you?"

572 W 162nd Street  
21 June

The building was red brick, ten stories of newly renovated condos. The reserved loading area at the entrance was occupied by an ambulance, lights flashing and its rear door open for the two paramedics loading a stretcher. A blood-stained blue blanket covered the victim; a third paramedic held an IV high over the stretcher.

"What we got?" Fin asked.

The woman holding the IV bag glanced in his direction.

_Quick check to make sure I'm not a reporter snuck past the tape...._

"Male, mid-forties. Gunshot wound to the chest."

She jumped into the bus and it pulled away. A uniformed sergeant took up the story.

"That vic is Dale Nicholson. Only one not DOA."

Fin scowled at his partner, who had voiced the opinion that the shift would be an easy one. Munch focused his attention on his notepad as the sergeant continued.

"Two more vics in the apartment—2E. We've tentatively ID'd them as Sylvia and Tommy Nicholson. Both shot in the back of their heads."

Munch fixed a steely glare on the sergeant's face.

"You've mistaken us for Homicide," he chided. "Try the Three-three's detective squad; I can give you their phone number."

The sergeant frowned at Munch's insolence.

"Don't question my judgement, Detective," he replied. "You have no idea what's up there. You might not be a perfect fit, but SVU is the nearest thing we've got to it."

A car horn behind them signaled the arrival of the ME. The sergeant turned without another word and went to guide the van through the crowd now gathered at the barrier.

Fin closed his notepad.

"Ain't smart to piss off a sergeant, John," he told his partner. "You know that."

"There's always a sergeant eager to explain," he replied, "why we have to take the case. Last I heard, gunshots to the back of the head and chest are not part of even the kinkiest of sexual activity."

Fin led the way to the entrance.

"And you'd know—right?"

John caught up to his partner at the door.

"Damn right I'd know," he replied. "Since joining this unit, I have thoroughly researched the items, beliefs, and practices that occupy people's minds and bodies. I can tell you about masochism, puerilism, bourbonism—which, I'll have you know, neither of us suffers from—sadism, transvestic fetishism—in fact, any ism about which you might inquire. I can discuss the differences and similarities between Furries and Formalists, Obscurants and Flagellants ...."

The harangue continued through the foyer, into the elevator, and down the second floor hallway to the open door of 2E. There, Munch turned his attention from his partner to the scene inside.

His voice stopped in mid-sentence.

Front desk  
Sixteenth Precinct  
21 June

The building housing the One-Six was built in the early 1900s. The squad rooms' décor was almost as old; only the computers on the ancient desks and the faxes and copiers snugged into odd corners proved that the twenty-first century existed. Technology had its biggest footprint on the precinct's Front Desk, an ornate wooden counter used by every desk sergeant ever posted to the precinct. Due to 9/11 and Homeland Security funding, it now held a bank of twelve security monitors, controls for all doors to the outside, and a dual-monitor computer.

Behind all this technology stood the one person no cop wanted to piss off—the precinct's desk sergeant—for the evening shift, a petite woman in her late thirties with short brunette hair and hazel eyes.

"They've been standing there for almost twenty minutes," Sergeant Neville told Otten and Sofarelli. "Those two—the ones in the headscarves."

She tipped her head toward the main entrance. Couch leaned against the counter, using his movement to mask a glance through the glass door. Next to him, his partner adjusted an earring while making a similar visual check of the outside.

_Young…maybe early twenties, more likely late teens…one in low-slung jeans and long-sleeved shirt—trying to blend current fashion with keeping her body covered. The other is wearing a long skirt and blouse, both light brown—Judith would know if that's beige or tan. She's Pakistani, maybe—the one in jeans looks Lebanese...._

The two women stood close together, holding each other's hand as they eyed the entrance and each passerby, especially those who steered a wide course around them. The jeans-wearer took a small step towards the entrance, but the woman in the skirt held her ground.

"They're scared," commented Judith. "Too scared to come in, too scared to leave. We'll have to approach them gently or we'll tip the balance."

"Any idea why they are here?" Couch asked.

"No," Sgt. Neville replied. "At first, I thought they were waiting for someone, but they're too nervous. I was about to send out a uni, but I remembered seeing your name on the translator list and called you instead."

Couch caught his partner's attention.

"Your wish is our command," he told the sergeant. "Let's go see what they need."

Sixteenth Precinct  
Office of Captain Cragen  
21 June 5:53 p.m.

Captain Cragen waited until Fred Tierney had closed the door before he introduced him and Tammy to the two men standing by his desk.

"Ed Green and Joe Fontana from Manhattan Homicide," he said as introduction. "Do you remember Ted Bewler?"

He got the reply he was expecting as quickly as he expected.

"Of course," Fred said, "Exposed himself to some Brownie Scouts on a field trip at the Natural History Museum. It wasn't the first time for him and he got the max—except that he's appealing."

"Not very," his partner added.

Cragen sighed.

_Tammy needs a new joke...._

Ed Green picked up the story.

"Seems Bewler was the victim of a hit-and-run this morning," he said. "No wallet or ID on the body, no tire marks from braking, no witnesses. The ME ID'd him through his prints."

Fred stiffened in his chair.

"You think one of the girls' parents did this?"

"At this point," Fontana answered, "we don't know what to think. You know we have to check out all the possibilities."

Tierney turned to face Cragen.

"You want us to hand these guys a list of the victims' parents?"

Cragen resisted the urge to duck the question.

_No, it's worse than that…._

"I want you and Tammy to work with Green and Fontana—question each parent and guardian, check their alibis and, if you can, get a quick, legal look at their cars."

Both Tierney and White opened their mouths to protest. Cragen spoke first.

"This is from One P.P. They don't like vigilantes running over convicted flashers the week before their appeals get heard. Just work through the list—Fontana and Green will handle the rest."

He stared down at his detectives until both nodded. Fontana smiled at their acquiescence.

"I'm sure we'll all work just fine together," he said. "Shall we get that list?"

He led the way from the office. Cragen ignored Tammy's overly loud sigh as she and Tierney filed out after him.

Ed Green hung back.

"You know I don't like to work this way, Captain."

Cragen nodded. Green had joined the Two-Seven's detective squad after Cragen's transfer, but he knew of him through Lennie Briscoe.

_Lennie respected Green as a detective and as a friend, but Fontana looks like the poster boy for 'smug.' Wish I could have paired him with Logan…one look at that hand-sewn silk tie and Mike would blow eight gaskets…._

"Use the kid gloves," he told Green. "This guy didn't just flash those Brownies; he told them exact how and where he wanted his willie to go. Their daughters were confused and scared and so are the parents."

Green showed that he understood with a tight smile.

"We'll watch our step. Want me to say 'Hey' to the lieutenant for you?"

"Yeah, give Anita my best."

Cragen's gaze followed Green as he left his office.

_It's the first day of summer… two hours into the shift and everyone has a new case… let's hope this isn't an omen…._


	2. Tropical Wave

Residence of Dale Nicholson  
572 W 162nd Street #2E  
21 June

Almost three decades of speaking for the dead, the raped, the molested, hurt and anguished had shown John Munch the worst that could be done by humans to humans. Because of this, the sight of two naked human bodies on the brown velvet divan did not bother him. That one was an adult female and the other a preadolescent male, both of their faces marred by exit wounds, did not faze him in the least.

What stopped his tongue was something he had never seen before.

_Feathers, feathers everywhere… rainbows of feathers… on the hall floor… covering the dining room table… and that wingback chair…._

Munch crossed the threshold and stepped around CSU tech Martin, who was examining what looked like a blood-stained stuffed animal on the carpet by the chair. After snapping on a Latex glove, he poked gently at the mass of feathers on the seat of the chair.

"That's a Scarlet Macaw," Martin told him, "or what's left after a .38 went through its head."

Fin came up behind Munch.

"Nicholson blew away his family and their pet birds?" he asked.

Martin indicated the bloody plush at their feet.

"And two toy poodles, both males: one apricot, one white."

"Damn," Fin said. "That's sick."

_Man shoots his wife, his son, and his pets... 'sick' doesn't begin to cover it…_

John gave the parrot a final stroke along its dark blue wing.

"I'll take the bodies," he told Fin. "You check with the first-on-scene—see if anyone knows why Daddy decided to blow everyone's brains out."

Residence of Renee Samms  
213 E. 32nd Street  
21 June

Ms Samms, mother of Brownie Scout Raisa Samms-Blaine, met Tierney and White in the building lobby. The Blackberry in her right hand, the Coach bag on her shoulder, and her gaze fixed on the lobby's main door let both detectives know she had no time to waste on them.

"If you're collecting for the driver's defense fund, then I'm in. Will a thousand be too little?"

Tammy smiled to show that she was taking it as a joke.

"We're not collecting, Ms Samms. We're here to ask where you were this morning around 7:45 a.m."

"What? You're kidding!"

The Blackberry vanished into the bag so Ms Samms could wag a finger at Tammy's face.

"That man backed my daughter and five of her friends into a corner, dropped his pants and told them to suck him off. I'd happily beat him to a pulp, but I wouldn't kill him, especially not with a brand new Z4. Better him kneeling in front of convicts with tattoos on their you-know-whats than me paying thousands for bodywork."

"May we take a look at your Z4?"

Ms Samms nodded. "I'll have Franklin call the garage—after he gets me a cab."

The bright red BMW roadster was pristine, as was the blue M5 sedan in Mr. Samms-Blaine's space.

"Good to see brand loyalty in a family," Tierney quipped.

White made a tick mark in her notebook and said, "One down, five to go. Who's next?"

Reed Alton, Beeca Alton's father, was next.

"I'm glad the sick bastard's dead," Mr. Alton said. "No, you can't see my car. Don't you have better things to do?"

The slam of his door ended the interview.

Mrs. Peters, Mr. and Mrs. Heer, and Ms. Bulwer, parents of Suzan, Nicole, and Britney, all had similar reactions.

Mr. Eugene Stockwell, father of Emily, was more direct. He whipped out his cell phone and punched in a number.

"What kind of incompetent moron sends two detectives to ask me if I killed Ted Bewler? I'll tell you—one with his head permanently up his ass!"

The call ended as the door slammed shut. Tammy spoke first.

"Think he called Time and Temperature so he could impress us?"

Her partner shook his head.

"We're never that lucky."

Interview One  
Sixteenth Precinct—Manhattan SVU  
21 June

The woman in jeans was Munira Nasrallah, a native-born Brooklynite whose parents immigrated from Lebanon; she was a junior at Hudson University. The younger woman was Asma Ahmad, from Ghazni in Afghanistan. Couch had Judith approach them first, knowing that she would make it easier for the less Westernized woman to tolerate his presence. Even with his partner as chaperone, it took all his persuasive talents, combined with Munira's coaxing, to convince Asma to come up to the squad room and talk.

After coffee was served, which gave Couch a chance to turn on the interview room's audio recording system and to alert Captain Cragen, he began the interview by sitting at the end of the table. Munira sat between him and Asma, who faced Judith across the table.

_This allows Asma to address Judith as the official police representative while she thinks of me as merely an interpret_er....

"I live at home," she said in her native Farsi. "My father brought us here three years ago. My uncle's family has an import-export business in Kabul. After the Taleban left, my uncle needed family here for his business. He sent my father to run his business and my father brought us."

"How old are you, Asma?"

"I have seventeen years."

"Are you married?"

"No."

"Would you tell us why you are here today?"

Asma's face paled and her lips twitched. Couch has about to rephrase the question when she finally spoke.

"Could Munira tell you? I cannot. It is a family matter and you are not family."

Judith looked from Asma to her friend.

"She speaks no English at all, not after three years here?" Judith asked.

Munira shook her head.

"She has led a very sheltered life—home, shops, mosque, home again. Her younger brother speaks good-enough English, but Asma, her sisters, and her mother speak only Farsi."

Before his partner could complain about this subjugation of women, Couch asked Munira what troubled her friend.

"Asma's father told her that she and her mother will be flying back to Kabul next week to visit family. Her mother called this a major treat and told her sisters how lucky Asma is to be going back home. However, Asma overheard a telephone conversation between her father and her uncle. It made it sound as though she is not going for a visit but to settle a tribal matter."

Judith's head jerked up as bile rose in Couch's throat. Asma stared straight at her reflection without any reaction to the story.

"She asked her mother about what she heard and was told that a problem with the business had offended several businessmen in Ghazni. To remove the offense, they required that his eldest child appear before them and apologize."

"Does her mother really believe that?" Judith asked, disgust sharpening her tone.

Munira shrugged.

"What matters is that Asma didn't believe it. She knew that she would find no help from her family or her imam so she came to my mosque. She said that we have a reputation for being soft on women."

The young woman paused for a bitter laugh.

"Islam does not teach the oppression of women; that is a leftover of tribal cultures. My imam realizes our worth and allows us to worship, teach, and learn. That does not make him soft—it makes him and us strong. Asma told me her story. I don't believe those men want Asma only to apologize—"

She glanced from Judith to Couch.

"You don't believe it, either. I'm glad. I feared I would explain and you would not believe me. Instead, I find that you know our customs. You treat us with respect and you also understand what will happen to Asma if she goes on this trip."

She sat back and smiled at the two detectives.

"I know you will solve my friend's problem."

265 W. 139th Street  
Apartment 602  
21 June

Bridget Shanahan's apartment had the same layout as Apt. 605, but the dark-eyed brunette did not appear to need roommates to pay the rent.

_No second-hand futons here…I wish I could afford her decorator—or least that chair… on second thought, it would make everything in my apartment look shabby, including me…._

Olivia sat on a barstool at the kitchen counter. Elliot stood next to her.

_Smart man… this stool looks like a black binder clip on a chrome pole, but it isn't as comfy…._

Bridget was using the kitchen counter as protection, keeping it between her and the detectives just as she had used her door, the coat rack inside the door, and the divan—hiding behind each as she simultaneously let them in and stayed far away from them.

Hunched over, arms held tight against her sides, baggy gray drawstring pants with an oversized St. Raymond's sweatshirt, no eye contact and she jumps every time Elliot speaks or moves—yes, she certainly has been through some sort of trauma…just have to find out what it is….

She caught her partner's attention and raised an eyebrow. His slight nod signaled his agreement to her desire to press their supposed victim.

"Ms Shanahan," he asked, "my apologies, but may I use your restroom?"

She pointed to a half-bath near the apartment door and he excused himself, leaving Olivia alone with Bridget. She rested her elbow on the counter in an effort to appear friendly and non-threatening.

"Bridget," she said, "we're here because your friends downstairs are worried about her. They're afraid someone hurt you."

The young woman twisted away from Benson, her head turned so far to her right that her chin buried itself in her shoulder. She took a deep breath then blew it out in one explosive moan.

At the edge of her peripheral vision, Olivia saw Stabler checking on them then quickly ducking back into the bath. She slid her hand along the countertop, ready to comfort Bridget if she would accept the contact.

"Bridget, it's all right—it's going to be all right. We're here to help you—to make it better for you."

The young woman's head began to shake violently.

"Not all right," she said. "It's not all right. It's….he…."

The rest was lost as Bridget burst into tears. Olivia left the barstool and went around the counter. She stopped as soon as she was in Bridget's line of sight then bent at her waist, moving her face closer while keeping her hands and body away.

"I know," she assured the young woman. "It was bad. It hurt you a lot. You're scared and frightened…."

She repeated the smoothing words, affirming that she understood what Bridget was feeling as she sobbed against her kitchen counter.

_'I understand'… 'I'm with you no matter what'… 'You are not alone'… unconditional acceptance of her and a promise to make it right… a bit hypocritical—I can't make it right; I can only get her medical and emotional help then catch the bastard that did this to her…._

Elliot came out of the bath, ready to help and to witness whatever Bridget might say. Olivia noted that he had placed himself out of the woman's line of sight then she moved her attention back to Bridget, repeating the words of acceptance and support until she had worked through the crying jag. When Bridget's sobs ceased and her breathing evened, Olivia changed her message.

"You need to tell us what happened, Bridget," she told her. "We can't help you until you tell us."

_The operative words are 'tell us'… just like a subliminal message, I repeat them until they sink in and she talks to us…._

Bridget straightened enough to look at the detective. The wary expression on her face warned Benson to take it slowly.

"Would you be more comfortable in a chair?" Olivia asked her.

The young woman nodded before leaving the kitchen to settle into a black overstuffed chair in the living room. She drew her knees up and rested her feet on the cushion, her gaze darting between Elliot across the room and Olivia, who moved to the matching chair next to Bridget.

"Okay," she said, "can you tell me what happened?"

Bridget drew in a deep breath and began her story.

"He grabbed me from behind and he forced me against the wall. He pinned me there while he tied my hands—I tried to slide away, but he held a kitchen knife up by my eye and said he'd cut it out if I fought back so I stopped trying to get away."

A glance in Elliot's direction showed that he was taking notes.

"You did the right thing, Bridget," Olivia assured her. "You survived. You know that, right?"

The young woman nodded her head.

"Now, can you tell us who attacked you?"

Bridget gasped and held the breath as though merely exhaling might endanger her. Her eyes went wide and her skin paled.

Olivia leaned a smidge closer, not enough to startle the woman, but enough to promise protection and support.

"Nothing will happen to you, Bridget. We're going to arrest the man who did this. Just tell us who he is."

Bridget fixed her gaze on Olivia's face though the sight of her was a lifeline then she let out the breath she was holding.

"He's my patient," she said. "I'm a home health nurse and he's my patient."

572 W 162nd Street  
21 June

Fin was on the sidewalk outside the apartment house when Tierney and White drove through the police barricade and parked near him. Streetlights and work lights mounted on police vehicles, brighter than the fading daylight, lit the façade of the building.

"John's the primary," he told them. "Check with him."

Munch, who was talking to captain of the CSU team at the rear doors of the meat wagon, paused his conversation only long enough to say "Canvass", then he waved them back to Fin.

"Feeling dissed?" Fin asked Fred.

"You don't know the half of it," Tierney replied. "We just finished checking on the whereabouts of the parents from the Bewler case. One of the parents called Cragen, a couple of chiefs, and the Commissioner. By the time we got back to the house, nobody liked us anymore."

"So we get to spend the rest of the shift obeying your every command," Tammy said. "What do you need?"

"A better genie than you," Fin said before briefing them on the Nicholson case.

"Eight gunshots," Fred asked, "and no one heard anything?"

"Most everyone was at work or some after-school activity with their kids. The woman who called it in was two floors up. She'd got food poisoning and was throwing up when the first shots were fired, but she heard the last ones. She thought she was alone in the building so she called police."

Fin glanced at the barricade, behind which swarmed the neighborhood's curious, the crime groupies, and the media. One reporter, a blonde in her late forties with the tight features of a woman hiding from her age, called out to them.

"Detectives, what can you give us?"

"The back of my hand," muttered Tierney. "I hate reporters."

Fin indicated the meat wagon with a jerk of his head.

"John and Cap'n Siper are figuring out the best way to remove the pets from the apartment," he said. "If we put them in evidence bags, everyone will see them and get upset. If we put them in garbage bags and Miz Cyndy Sierens over there finds out, she'll jump on the story and get animal lovers upset."

"If you take them out on a stretcher," Tammy added, "people will say you're treating animals like people and get upset."

"Yeah. We can bring two people out in black plastic body bags and no one cares. Put five dead pets in black plastic and...."

Fin's voice trailed off. After a second, he got back to business.

"Uniforms canvassed the buildings next door. You two take the building across the street. See if anyone heard anything."

Office of Captain Cragen  
Sixteenth Precinct—Manhattan SVU  
21 June

Sofarelli and Cragen standing in front of the one-way glass separating the office from Interview One. In that room, Otten was conversing with Munira while Asma stared at the table top.

"We're talking honor killing, honor rape?" Cragen asked.

"I'm sure of it," Couch said. "No one would pay the cost of a flight to Kabul and back just so Asma can say "_Bebakhshid_."

"Bay-back-sheed?"

"It means, 'I'm sorry'. It's more likely that their family's tribal council has decided Asma must buy back her family's honor. She'll be—well, she'll be...."

"Gang-raped by members of the insulted tribe," Cragen finished the sentence for him. "You have to get over your inhibitions, Al. We use real words for real horrors here—euphemisms won't cut it. You can't help the victims deal with reality if you can't handle it yourself."

Couch glanced at the scared teenager hunched in the chair across from Judith.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I know how the culture works, but it's still hard to believe any father would do that to his daughter...."

Cragen's stare bore into Couch and forced him to rephrase.

"...would let his daughter be gang-raped or murdered to satisfy his version of honor."

The captain's tight smile approved his attempt. Cragen then said, "Now, the bad news. There probably isn't much we can do about this."

"But—"

Cragen held up his hand, palm out, stopping Couch's protest.

"We've dealt with honor killing before, but the murders took place here, in our jurisdiction. All we have now is a possibility of a crime in another country sometime in the future. In order for us to act, we have to prove foreknowledge and intent—that the father knows his daughter will be raped when she gets to Afghanistan and that he arranged the trip anyway. If he does, then he's a facilitator and an accessory."

He sighed.

"Proving that will be hard. Your skills give us an edge, but getting Mr. Ahmad to admit to this won't be easy. Corroborating it will be worse. He might talk, but will his family, the tribal leaders—the rapists?"

Cragen glanced at his watch.

"Should she be home by now? Doesn't she turn into a pumpkin at sunset or something?"

Couch snorted at the thought.

"She may refuse to go home. If her father finds out she came here, he might—no, he will react with anger to her disobedience."

Cragen took a step toward his office door.

"Let's see if Asma and Munira thought that out when they decided to come here."

Couch led the way into the interview room. Asma was saying something to Munira while Judith listened. As soon as the door swung open, she fell silent. Wide dark eyes stared at the two men from under her headscarf as she leaned away from them.

Judith left her chair and joined Cragen and Sofarelli at the door.

"We should get them a ride home," she told them. "Munira said that Asma is expected in by dark tonight. She told her mother she was attending a womens' study at Munira's mosque. Her mother wasn't thrilled about giving permission so Asma is anxious to get home on time."

"I'm surprised Asma's mother let her go with Munira," Cragen said. "Those jeans look pretty immodest next to Asma's outfit."

"Munira was wearing a full skirt over them when she met Asma's family."

She smiled at the deception then turned and relayed the offer of a ride to Munira. The young woman accepted.

"We must be dropped several blocks from Asma's apartment," she cautioned, "so no one sees us."

Cragen nodded then said, "Couch, have Officer Ann Podlewski go with you when you take them home."

He turned to Munira and introduced himself.

"Detective Sofarelli apprised me of the situation and we'll do everything in our power to help. Would it be possible for you to come back tomorrow when there's more time and answer some questions—fill in some background for us?"

After promising to return at two o'clock the next day, Munira translated for Asma the arrangements to get them home. They then left with Couch and the female uniform. Cragen motioned Otten into his office.

After they both were seated, he on his desk corner, Judith in a chair, he said, "We kept taping after Couch left, but I won't have the transcript until tomorrow. Tell me—what's your take on Munira Nasrallah?"

Judith spent a moment gathering her thoughts.

"She seems sincere about being Asma's friend and about helping her, but her major at Hudson is 'Women and Gender Studies'. Munira may see Asma more as a project than a friend. "

"Munira is Lebanese-American," Cragen noted. "The Lebanese speak Arabic, French, English, Armenian and Kurdish. Why would she know Farsi? That's a Persian language."

Judith raised an eyebrow at his show of knowledge.

"No one plays trivia games with me," he said with a smile. "I always win."

"I'll remember that, Judith said. "Munira said that Farsi was useful in her volunteer work. She also speaks Arabic and took French in high school. It's not her language skills that bother me."

"What does?"

"Munira attends the Islamic center on Manhattan Avenue; I recognized its name. Its support groups offer help with immigrant issues, language classes, job training, legal aid, but it's also the home of more radical women's groups."

"Such as?"

She tallied them on her fingers.

"The Network of Muslim Women", "Women against Shariah Law", "Stop Subjugating Sisters"…. The groups help women trapped in arranged or plural marriages or those who have been abandoned by their families because they chose to get an education or a job or to pick their own spouses. Rumor has it that they run the modern equivalent of the Underground Railroad; women who fear attacks from their husbands or male relatives contact them then 'disappear'."

Cragen crossed his arms on his chest and stared down at Otten.

"And you know this because…?"

Judith's gaze shifted briefly to the opposite corner of the room. Before she could speak, Cragen pinned her with a sharp-tongued question.

"You're about to lie, aren't you?"

Her head snapped up as though jerked by his words. Cragen did not give her a chance to explain.

"I know you're good at it," he said. "Don't ever lie to me. That's an order."

She frowned, her eyes narrowed as though she were considering a protest, then she nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, you were about to say…."

The desk phone rang. Cragen kept his attention on Otten as he answered it with a "What?"

He listened then said, "Did you say 'Bridget Shanahan'? Will she come in tomorrow and sign a complaint? Great—soon as she does, we'll get a warrant and you can pick him up. In the meantime, head by 572 W 162nd Street and see if Munch still needs help canvassing."

He replaced the receiver then turned back to Otten.

"Dig up everything you can about those 'support groups' and make sure you include your own experience with them. I want to know exactly what they do or don't do before anyone talks with Munira Nasrallah tomorrow."

He began packing up files to take home, slapping them into a stack on his desk. Four had been stacked before Otten got the message that she had been dismissed and she left his office.

He slid the folders into his portfolio.

_Can't believe she would lie to me… first Stabler's distrusting me, then this from Otten… what has gotten into the people here?_


	3. Tropical Disturbance: part one

A/N: The Notice for Examination for Promotion to Sergeant-NYCPD comes out four months before the exam is given; exceptions are given for officers who meet the requirements within the four months between the exam notice and the exam or for hardship cases.

AU alert: I'm giving Fin kin

Incident Room, 5th floor  
Sixteenth Precinct  
22 June

Captain Cragen had arranged an incident room for Howie Brewster after he learned how much porn was involved in the "Boys and Girls Gone Wild" case. The tech guys installed two viewing stations with high-def monitors so detectives could scan the videos in close detail. Any SVU detective with spare time—or who failed to evade Howie's long reach—helped by watching the accumulating evidence for signs of who was making the porn or where it had been made.

Fin arrived an hour early to do his stint and found Judith Otten staring at one of the monitors.

"I thought I was in early," he said while taking a seat at the station next to her.

"Today, early was one-thirty."

"Howie conned you into watching that much porn?"

Judith kept her gaze on the monitor while she shook her head.

"Couch and I had a meeting with Cragen before we talked with Munira Nasrallah—she's involved in the possible honor rape we're handling. Afterward, Couch begin to research the family's business and background. I can't read Farsi so I'm here."

Fin opened his assigned amateur porn as Judith continued to speak.

"Does it seem to you as though Captain Cragen has been a bit touchy lately?"

"What'd you mean?"

Judith glanced at Fin then back at her screen, the brief eye contact showing her hesitancy about continuing.

"Two things: up to now, Cragen has seemed infinitely patient. Last night, I got chewed out over nothing."

_I guess the affair between you two is over...._

Fin wisely kept his thoughts to himself, instead asking, "What he get upset about?"

"Nasrallah is involved in an organization that assists oppressed Muslim women. I know about that group from a lecture I attended with my mother. For some reason, Cragen assumed I was active with that group and was lying about it. He actually ordered me never to lie to him."

Fin stifled a smile.

"It's what you get for being so good at it."

She rolled her eyes, a request heavenward for patience.

"What else did Cap'n do?"

"Couch says that Cragen wants him to take the sergeant's exam next month."

Fin's hand froze on his mouse, the porn before him ignored as he stared at Judith.

_That'd put Couch over all of us....youngest, newest, least experienced... Cap'n was pissed with Elliot last week, but I thought he was over it by now...._

"The exam sign-up was months ago," he said.

"Couch told me Cragen can get him in. He also offered to arrange study help if Couch needs it."

Judith stared at Fin, her gaze flicking over his face as though gauging his trustworthiness.

"Does this have to do with Cragen being angry at Elliot?"

Fin deepened his scowl as he considered Judith's news.

_If Cap'n has lost faith in Elliot, then he'd want a new lead detective… based on rank, seniority and time with the unit, John'd be next in line... guess Cap'n isn't thinking that way... Olivia's next, but making her lead over Elliot, John—and Judith, she's got the seniority, too—will bring all sorts of hell… Couch making sergeant is smart of Cap'n… follow the regs and Elliot can't complain... from what I've seen, he'd make a good one… but will Elliot take it, even from his friend? Will we take it?_

"What's Couch going to do?" Fin asked.

"I don't know. Cragen gave him until end of shift today to decide."

Judith's shrug mirrored Fin's. Since neither could resolve the problem or guess its outcome, they both turned back to their monitors.

After twenty minutes of silently watching inexperienced teens grope each other, Judith broke the silence.

"Look...."

She spun her monitor to face Fin. The still shot showed a dark-haired girl and lanky blond boy, both mid-teens, both in jeans and shirtless, seated on a red chenille bedspread. The girl was reaching behind her back to unfasten her bra while the boy stared at her chest with a gap-mouthed expectant grin.

"There's usually nothing but paneling behind the bed. This time, we have artwork. Someone must have moved the camera."

Fin peered at the bottom half of two unframed landscapes on a wall of fake walnut paneling, the only part of the room visible. The paintings were meadow scenes with flowers—amateur efforts in garish colors that lacked perspective and shading.

"Paint-by-number," he said. "Haven't seen one of them in years."

"Note how they're hung."

She zoomed in to show three flat-head Phillips screws, one on each side with one centered at the lower edge, that fastened the picture to the paneling.

"If this is a kid's bedroom," he said, "those pictures'd be hung with a nail or one of those stick-em hooks. Those screws are overkill."

Judith nodded.

"Someone is afraid of theft. That means they are in a public place not under constant supervision. This isn't someone's home or even a set somewhere...."

"...it's a cheap motel," Fin finished the sentence. "No money for art so they made their own."

Judith's smug smile matched Fin's as she made a note of the find.

"Now," she said, "all we need is to locate the motel."

"Get Howie to post a question on some travel web sites: 'Anybody ever see crappy paint-by-number art in a motel?' If someone saw them, they'll reply."

Judith added Fin's suggestion to her note then turned the monitor to face her again. Fin eyed his own monitor with extreme distaste.

"I never was stupid enough to let someone watch me doing this."

Judith pitched her voice high and young.

"You're so out of it. Everyone's doing it."

"Yeah, right. These kids look fifteen. What were you doing at fifteen?"

Judith's brow furrowed as she thought back.

"I was watching 'A Hard Days Night' for the umpteenth time and wishing I could kiss George Harrison."

"George Harrison, the Beatle?"

The blush started at her ears and reddened her checks.

"I had a serious crush on him back then. What about you?"

Fin quickly ran through his memories.

_1976... my parents were back home again... but a story from when Bólají and me were still with Grammy is safer...._

"Emmaline Jenks," Fin said, his head held high and his gaze steady, "she was my age and she sang in the church choir."

"And?"

"All the other girls swayed to the rhythm. Emmaline bounced. All us boys tried to get to church in time to get the front pew so we could watch Emmaline bounce."

Judith's laugh was a muffled snort with eyebrows raised.

"Typical teenaged boy."

"Never said I wasn't."

_I wish that was true...._

The door opened and Munch peeked in.

"Am I interrupting? No? Damn."

Fin scowled at his partner, who took it as an invitation to come in and perch on the table that held Judith's monitor. He craned his neck to see what was on her screen as she rolled her chair away from him.

"Ah, the joys of youth—frolicking before webcams, giving horny perverts something to brighten their sordid little lives—"

"You'd know, wouldn't you?"

Only Munch heard her comment, but his quick bolt upright and the glare he gave her signaled to Fin that another round of acrimony had begun.

_Can't you two play nice—stop acting like wrinkly two-year-olds?_

Before Munch could snap back at Otten, Fin said, "Yeah, we were talking about how things were different when we were fifteen."

"A time," Judith said, "I'm certain your partner doesn't remember."

Munch reared back, his lips pressed against his teeth and his head angled down. Their glares locked, hers straight at Munch, his boring through his dark lenses back at her.

Fin stood up.

"About time we headed up to the squad," he announced. "You can tell Howie about those pictures."

"You mean she found something?"

Munch leaned into Judith's face, his toothy smile mismatched to his glare.

"Good for you, Otten. We're all so proud of you."

She muttered something guttural. Munch's false grin widened as Judith grabbed her notes and left. Fin glanced at the door closing behind her then he glared at his partner.

_I'm sick of trying to smooth things out between you two...._

He left, letting the door slam after him. Munch allowed himself a smug smile.

_I got her cursing in German in only two this time...but that crack not remembering my youth… I know what Otten was doing back then...hanging out with Black Panthers, something I'm sure she doesn't want spread throughout the precinct...._

He glanced around the room, noting the high-definition monitors, the color laser printer for screen captures, the flatbed scanner that had come with the set-up. This time, his grin was not phony.

_Scan that photo in, make a few full-color copies, and let everyone play "Guess the Detective"... should be a lot of fun... for me, at least...._

Residence of Raymond Wayne  
W 146th Street  
Apt. 120

Smith lived in a first-story apartment over a drugstore in Hamilton Heights. Gentrification had not yet reached his neighborhood, but his entry door bore a fresh coat of brown paint and the hardware was shiny new brass..

"Someone put some money in this door," Elliot noted.

Olivia snapped the arrest warrant against her left palm.

"Damn shame he won't get more time to enjoy it."

Bridget Shanahan had named Raymond Wayne Smith, a patient of hers, as her attacker.

"I visit him twice a week," she had told Stabler and Benson the night before. "I check his blood pressure, listen to his lungs, then run through his exercises with him."

"Exercises?" Olivia asked.

"Breathing exercises. I work with patients who have COPD, Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Diseases like bronchitis and emphysema. People with COPD have trouble getting air out of their lungs. Pursed-lip exhaling puts pressure on the air passages in the lungs; they stay open longer and forces the trapped air out so they can inhale better."

Bridget sat upright in her overstuffed chair and mimicked blowing out birthday candles.

"I also assist with body strengthening—if your muscles are in good shape, they need less oxygen. The standard exercise prescription is walking, either on a treadmill or outside, and upper body exercises. Mr. Smi—"

She froze, her eyes wide with fear. Olivia leaned close and spoke with a firm, reassuring voice.

"You don't have to be scared of him, Bridget. Just tell us what we need to arrest him and he'll never hurt you or anyone else again."

To her left, Elliot nodded his agreement.

"That's right, Bridget," he said, "it will be a pleasure to haul him in."

_Damn right about that… this is a real pleasure…._

Elliot reached the door first. Olivia stood to the side, warrant in her hip pocket and weapon in hand while he pounded on the entry door.

"Mr. Smith? NYPD—open up."

During the nothing that came in response to his call, Olivia listened, her ear close to the door frame.

"Someone's coming very slowly."

Elliot nodded. A few seconds later, the door was opened by a Caucasian male, 5'10", mid-fifties, 230 pounds, sandy brown hair thin on top, dark eyes, narrow nose. His glare shifted from Elliot to linger on Olivia…

_…damn it, look at my face…._

…then back to Elliot before he snarled, "What?"

"Raymond Smith," Stabler announced, "we have a warrant for your arrest."

Smith's gaze shifted from the detective to the room behind him as though checking escape routes.

"For what? What'd I do? I didn't do nothing. "

A snap of Olivia's wrist put the legal paper under Smith's nose.

"For the rape of Bridget Shanahan. Step outside—now!"

Smith stood his ground.

"I didn't rape anyone. Whatever that nurse says, it's a lie. I'm sick—can't barely breath. You can't take me in for rape."

Elliot grabbed the man by his arm and spun him around.

"Sure we can—watch."

Smith rode quietly until they turned off the West Side Highway then his breathing became rough and wheezing. Olivia twisted in her seat to look at him as he leaned forward, trying to ease tight muscles enough to draw in air.

"You okay?"

He glared at her, lips pursed to exhale.

"You got my inhaler? Can I have it?"

Olivia had grabbed it from the hall table after Elliot cuffed him. She held it out to him.

"I need to shake this first, right?"

He nodded. As soon as she held it for him, he put his lips around the mouthpiece and, as she depressed the spray, sucked in the medication. Olivia watched as he held his breath, giving his lungs a chance to absorb the relaxant so he could breath more easily. His next few breaths were labored, but the wheezing had quieted.

_Hell of a way to live, struggling to get every breath…the way he looks, I think a sleeping baby could take him in a fight…._

She put away her doubts as she slid the inhaler back into her pocket. When Elliot handed Smith to the desk sergeant for booking, she made sure the inhaler went with him

Their next stop was Cragen's office, where he ran through the usual questions.

"You having CSU go through Smith's apartment?"

Elliot answered with a nod.

"I told them to concentrate on the sofa she said she was raped on and the floor around it. If they find any secretions matching hers, then it has to be true."

Cragen scowled at Elliot.

"Or it proves she had consensual sex and regretted it later."

"No way," Elliot said, "Bridget definitely is the victim of an attack. We checked with her employer—her other patients are female and elderly except three: a ten-year-old boy with cystic fibrosis, a quadriplegic in his teens, and another emphysema patient; he's seventy-three."

"Check him out. If it's him, you'll give me hope for my old age."

Both detectives chuckled politely.

_Always laugh at your CO's jokes, even the ones that make you go 'Huh?'_

"About Smith," Olivia said, "he's barely strong enough to walk unaided, let alone attack a healthy young woman. You should have seen him struggling to breathe on the way here. Add that to his record being clean and—well, I don't know about this."

Elliot jerked his head around to stare at her. Cragen raised his eyebrows and blinked a few times before addressing her doubts.

"You know," he told her, "there are ways to incapacitate a victim besides brute force. As far as his record being clean, verify Smith's ID against his prints; maybe he's in the system under a different name."

"Captain Cragen?"

The question came from the open door, which was filled with the rotund form of Andrew Beale, SVU Bureau Chief, resplendent in a gray suit, white shirt, and mauve tie. He greeted Stabler and Benson before asking Cragen for a moment of his time.

Olivia stood up.

_When the SVU Bureau Chief asks, it's an order…._

Elliot followed her out the door. The squad room was empty of detectives although Tutuola could be seen at the table in Interview One with a middle-aged man in a dark blue golf shirt.

_Must be the ex-husband of the wife murdered by Nicholson… Fin's seeing if he can shed some light on motive… Nicholson himself is still unconscious in ICU… John said maybe tomorrow morning they could talk to him….Fred and Tammy are reinterviewing Sandy Echols, a rape victim in a case they caught Monday…give a vic some time to cope with what happened and she often remembers more details…Judith and Couch are talking to the father in their case…glad it's them… I have enough trouble with what people raised in our culture can do…._

Hey, Liv—"

Elliot's voice came from by the coffeepot, where he was holding up an empty mug. She nodded and he brought them both steaming mugs. She set hers by her keyboard and mulled over their case while Elliot started to check out Chet Kincaid, the elderly emphysema patient.

_Something's not right... our perp is feeble, our vic in good shape and half his age... he lives in a walk-up, she lives in a place she shouldn't be able to afford... it doesn't add up... Shanahan acts like she was attacked—all the right reactions and trauma signs... but, even if Smith had a knife, she could have walked away faster than he can run... it just doesn't seem—_

"You asked Neville to run Smith's prints—Liv?"

Elliot's question drew a distracted "Yes" from her as she continued to wonder. He stopped typing to peer at her.

"Something up?" he asked.

Olivia took a moment to gather her thoughts.

"Cap asked the question 'Was this consensual sex?' You saw Smith—he isn't strong enough to subdue a woman Bridget's age and physical condition."

She reached for the case file and paged through it.

"We get anything from Bridget as to how she can afford her apartment on her pay?"

"No," Elliot answered, his concerned frown showing his puzzlement. "The question never came up."

"Maybe," Olivia said, her finger pinning the open folder to her desk, "she provides other forms of exercise besides breathing to her patients. That would explain all that expensive furniture."

Elliot gave her idea a good three seconds' thought.

"Nope. She acts traumatized—jumpy and hypersensitive. Bridget Shanahan was attacked and I don't have any trouble with Raymond Smith as her rapist."

"But," Olivia tried again, her voice a bit louder and more insistent, "you saw and heard him wheezing. Can you really see him—"

Her partner's tone matched her own growing annoyance.

"Smith's either faking or he caught her during a good spell—maybe right after a hit off his inhaler. A determined rapist would use his illness to his advantage; he'd lull his vic into a sense of comfort and safety—'this weak old man can't hurt me'—then he'd attack.

Elliot rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward.

"How come you're taking Smith's side in this? It's not like you, Liv."

The tone of his voice, the slight sarcasm that dismissed her arguments, rasped against her better judgement. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

"What's not like me?" she demanded. "I should railroad a sick old man simply because the vic said he did it?"

He held up both hands to fend off her displeasure.

"No, but it's not like you to side with the perp."

The exasperation in his compressed lips kept her on the defensive. Olivia shook her head vigorously.

"Smith's not our perp. You saw him coughing and wheezing—"

"I saw him at his door wondering if he could get away from us. Innocent people don't think about running. He's our perp, Liv."

Olivia slapped the case folder with her open palm.

"No, he isn't. Either someone else attacked Bridget and she's blaming Smith or she's lying."

Elliot gave the ceiling a quick glance.

_What? You need divine patience to deal with me right now? You're the one railroading Smith… are you looking for an easy close?_

She repeated her last thought aloud. Elliot's eyes narrowed and the muscle over his cheekbone twitched. When he spoke, his voice was low and sarcastic.

"Go ahead—check out Bridget's finances. We all know vics lie."

He turned back to his keyboard and began pounding out the request for data on Chet Kincaid. Olivia stared at her partner, disbelief at his thickheaded stubbornness straining her composure past politeness. She dialed Casey's office, stabbing the buttons as so hard that the desk phone slid back from the force against it.

_First a subpoena for Shanahan's finances… that should show Elliot…_

Interview One  
22 June

"…the judge awarded custody to me, but Susan—the one you're calling Sylvia—ran off the day of the hearing. I've spent the last ten months tracking her and Timothy down."

Rick Houslet paused for a sip of coffee.

"Beginning of this month, I heard from a private detective I'd hired that a credit card belonging to Dan Nielson—he's the asshole she cheated on me with—had been used at a store on Park Row. Last week, I found out Susan was living here under the name 'Nicholson' with Timothy and that asshole. My lawyer told me I could fly out and bring my son back, but it might get messy. He said I'd be better off going through the New York legal system."

His eyes moistened and he stopped to blow his nose.

"I should have flown out that very day. If nothing else, I could have seen Timothy—maybe grabbed him and brought him back with me. At least then he'd be alive."

Houslet wadded his handkerchief and gripped it tightly in his right fist as he stared into space. Across the table from him, Fin responded with a sigh hissed through pursed lips.

_Yeah—tough luck… nasty divorce… wife take the kid and disappears… gets the good news too late… damn…._

"Mr. Houslet?"

Houslet swallowed hard before returning his attention to the detectives.

"As soon as the medical examiner is finished," Fin told him, "your son's body can be released. There's some paperwork…."

Houslet shook his head.

"I don't want to see him. It's been almost a year. Kids grow so fast; I probably wouldn't know him now."

Fin leaned forward, his hands spread in apology.

"We don't need you to identify you son, Mr. Houslet," he said gently. "You don't have to see him if you don't want to."

Houslet's head jerked sideways. His lips trembled and he snuffled twice.

"Thank you. Seeing him that way—I'd waited so long to see him again…."

He lowered his head into both hands and sobbed. Fin was about to offer to call Warner and see how much longer she needed when Houslet spoke through his fingers.

"How is Nielson doing? Just like him to manage the murder part and blow the suicide."

Fin grimaced at the bitter words.

"He's in ICU at Columbia Presbyterian," he said. "We're hoping to talk to him tomorrow."

"Find out why he killed Timothy?"

"Yeah. Do you know why he might do this to your son and your ex-wife?"

Houslet lifted his head from his hand. His eyes, moist and rimmed with red, glared at Fin.

"Maybe he found out I knew where they lived. Maybe he decided to keep Timothy away from me not just now, but forever."

There wasn't much more to say after that. Fin made sure he had Houslet's contact info before the grieving man left.


	4. Tropical Disturbance: part two

Office of Captain Cragen  
22 June

Andrew Beale settled into the side chair by Cragen's desk and extended his legs in a joint-popping stretch.

"Feels good to sit down. I spent most of today in court—remember the rooftop rapist case Carter and Simone from Bronx SVU closed last winter?"

Cragen leaned back in his own chair and nodded.

"Jim Tolliver was supposed to try that case, but he's down with mumps—caught them from his three-year-old. Turns out the man doesn't believe in vaccinations; he thinks they cause autism."

The thought of mumps made Don's throat itch.

"I had mumps as a kid," he said. "It wasn't fun, but it's better have them young. Mumps can make grown men sterile."

"Then I hope Tolliver is happy with his one kid, but that's neither here nor there. What brought me over was a phone call last night from Gene Stockwell. He interrupted a rare quiet evening at home to tell me you had your head up your ass."

Cragen stifled a sigh.

"And you're here to check my scalp for fecal material?"

Beale's grin pooched up his cheeks until his eyes vanished behind them.

"Good one, Don—good one. No, I'm here to tell you not to worry about Stockwell or the other parents. I'm backing you on this one. If there's any more complaints, you send them to me."

Cragen picked up a stack of message slips and held them out to Beale.

"Fontana and Green did follow-up interviews today. They didn't make it clear that they are Homicide, not SVU."

Beale took the slips and shuffled through them.

"More likely they didn't mention it at all," he said while reading. "That way, you get the heat, not their CO."

He paused to reread the last one.

"I'd almost like to see you try this one."

"No way," Cragen replied. "There are better uses for a pitching wedge."

Both men laughed, Beale with muffled guffaws, Cragen a throaty snort.

"Soon as you get that cast off," Beale said, "we'll play a round. I'll put a foursome together. You know Ed Wilson, Deputy Commissioner of Legal Matters?"

"Not to—"

Beale pulled out his Blackberry and began to make notes to himself.

"I'll get Ed and Steve Murillo—you should get to know both of them better. Ed was very impressed with the way you and your people handled the Chestnut operation and its aftermath."

A few more thumb pokes and Beale slid the Blackberry into his pocket.

"I'd better get going; I got a case to prep for—damn Tolliver and his phobias. We still on for dinner Friday? After sticking you with Breslau, I owe you a meal—maybe two."

"Fine with me."

Beale grabbed the arms of his chair and pushed himself upright.

"I'll let you know when and where. Wish me luck."

He closed the door behind him, leaving Cragen sorting through the bureau chief's last sentences.

_Steve Murillo…Chief Murillo of Patrol Services… he made captain the same year I did… he's where I would have been if I hadn't ratted Pete O'Farrell out… golf with two chiefs and a deputy commissioner… fifteen years ago, this would prove I was heading places…now, it's—_

He picked up a pencil and shoved it, eraser end first, under his cast to scratch his palm.

_—now, it's a chance to play golf… that's all it is…._

Ehsan Imports  
1015 Bleecker Street  
22 June

Admad Ehsan was in his early fifties, 5' 6", brown eyes, black hair and moustache both streaked with gray. He wore a yellow dress shirt open at the collar, black slacks and an agitated frown.

"I have no reason to speak with you," he repeated, his words distorted by accent and fear. "I have done nothing wrong. Leave now!"

He blocked the entrance to Ehsan Imports, his left hand on the door frame, right gripping the edge of the door. Sofarelli stood on the stoop, his partner three feet to his left on the sidewalk. Otten watched both Ehsan and their surroundings, her gaze flicking over the couple exiting the Indian restaurant next door and the Nigerian woman locking up her own import boutique beyond the restaurant. None of the three paid any attention to the two detectives and the man they had angered.

Couch pulled a business card from his pocket.

"If there's anything you want to tell us in the future, please call me."

Ehsan ignored the proffered card. Couch stuck it in a gap in the door frame then turned on his heels and headed up Bleecker to their Taurus. Judith waited until Mr. Ehsan slammed the door shut and locked it before following her partner.

"That," she said after they had pulled into traffic, "was not fruitful."

A low breathy whistle expressed Couch's frustration.

"We weren't allowed to mention his daughter for fear of getting her in trouble," he said. "We can't mention tribal honor judgments in case Admad figures out Asma came to us for help. Custom prevents me from talking directly to his wife and daughters. You might get in the door, but you don't speak their language."

"And," Judith added, "Munira won't act as a translator because that would make her a police agent and she refuses to do anything official. So we end up chatting with Mr. Eshan about vague generalities until he got upset and...."

Judith shifted in her seat and stared directly at Couch.

"You did stick to vague generalities in all that Farsi, didn't you?"

Couch negotiated the turn into W. 8th Street before answering.

"I followed the parameters laid out by Novak and Cragen: 'Don't say or do anything that makes Mr. Ehsan think he's being harassed.'"

They drove several blocks in silence. Judith glared through the windshield with her lips twisted into a sneer.

_Judith looks like a camel getting ready to spit… I know how she feels... Novak thinks we should turn this over to the Feds and the Afghan Consulate—see if they can protect Asma after she gets to Kabul... but I didn't sign up to give my cases away... ._

He glanced at his partner.

"You okay with whatever Munira and her group might cook up?"

Her glare did not soften.

"We ought to be protecting Asma ourselves, not dumping the job on the Feds or some women's support group."

Couch waited, but Judith said no more, preferring silent resentment to complaining about their inability to act. While he drove, Couch turned his mind to other concerns.

_Might as well tell Judith now… she's already out of sorts...._

He cleared his throat and said, "You wanted to know about the sergeant's exam before I told Cragen."

Judith turned toward him with a derisive snort.

"What's to tell? Only a fool would refuse."

Couch nodded.

_And only a fool would ignore what his future subordinates will think… I was going to take the exam next time it came around… this way, I gain a year... Elliot won't take this well, but it's the best thing for him…If I'm lead, Elliot gets some needed free time—time he can spend with his kids, maybe work things out with Kathy… Cragen said he will tell everyone when the time is right… if he wants the heat, that's fine with me...._

McMullen's Tavern  
23 June

They arrived last, Olivia having caught a ride with Judith. Elliot had not given her choice a second glance or comment and Olivia did not bother to explain.

_If he can't handle a five-minute car ride alone, then he needs to be alone more often…._

McMullen's was busy, but not packed. Unlike some cop bars, the place was not cluttered with faux Irish pub décor or NYPD memorabilia. Lights were bright enough to read a menu but not enough to spark a headache in the inebriated. The restrooms were clearly marked and the two pool tables had sufficient space to aim a cue without hitting the drinkers seated nearby.

Olivia stopped at the end of the bar to survey the place.

"We've got the far back corner—oh, shit!"

Beside her, Judith craned to see the problem.

"What?"

"Looks like they got Green and Smugtana with them."

"Who?

"Our favorite Homicide detectives," Olivia told her. "the ones who got Fred and Tammy in hot water yesterday. Green's okay, but I liked his previous partner better. Fontana thinks he's smarter and more sophisticated than everyone else and doesn't mind letting us know it."

She gave Judith a moment to observe the two detectives. Green was sitting by Fin, his chin resting on his hand…

_Pretending to be bored while watching everyone intently… smooth, real smooth…._

…while Fontana next to him appeared to be monopolizing the conversation.

_That's Fin's 'go the fuck away' scowl… Elliot looks like he wants to spit in Fontana's beer... same with Couch… I'll bet Fred and Tammy are weighing the penalties for shooting a fellow officer… John looks ready to burst… usually he's the one holding forth—better his UFO rant than whatever Fontana has on his mind…._

"C'mon," she told Judith, "let's get this over with."

They approached the table, where their coworkers greeted them with 'Heys' and 'About time you got heres'. Fontana rose to his feet at their arrival.

"Detective Benson," he said warmly, "and—?"

Olivia made the introduction while Judith extended her right hand. Fontana took her hand in both of his and bowed slightly over it.

_He's not suave… he's creepy…._

"It's good to meet you, Detective Otten," he said, "and it's so good to see you again, Olivia. Ed and I are buying your team a round to make up for the hassles we've caused you."

"You're the reason we're hip-deep in angry parents," Olivia told him.

Fontana shook his head as he released Judith's hand.

"No, Ted Bewler is the reason. Ed and me—we're merely the proximate cause."

While Judith took a chair by her partner and Olivia squeezed between Fin and Munch, Green poured them each a mug of lager. Olivia accepted hers with a nod of thanks and a silent hope that Munch would seize the conversation and pontificate until the two outsiders left.

To her consternation, Fontana spoke up first.

"We've been discussing skiing. I usually ski Breckenridge, but I've spent weekends in Stowe when the snow there is good. Seems that John here is the only one of you who skis."

Olivia stared over her mug at Munch and tried to picture him _schussing_ down a mountain.

John's not much wider than a ski pole… add a Nordic sweater and bright colored parka… my brain hurts....

"Yes," John responded. "Many's the time I'd go from Baltimore to Black Mountain and enjoy a weekend on the slopes—"

"—and the week after in traction," Fin added.

Judith's immediate loud snort drew a glare from Munch. Fontana used the distraction to resume control of the conversation.

"You look athletic, Olivia. Do you ski?"

_Yes, I spend every cent left over after rent, food, and parking on ski equipment... seriously, even your partner is rolling his eyes... why don't you realize you're being an ass?_

She shook her head.

"A few times back in college. Rock-climbing is more my speed."

Her answer earned her a big moustache-ruffling Fontana smile.

_Don't patronize me—I'd like to see you hauling that overpriced suit up a rock wall...._

Fontana then turned to Judith, who had twisted in her seat and was speaking in low tones to Couch.

"What about you, Detective Otten?"

Without looking his way, she said, "Zermatt."

The sudden gape-mouthed shock on Fontana's face caught everyone's attention. He slid his mug aside so he could lean closer to Otten.

"Zermatt? You mean Zermatt as in the Swiss Alps—that Zermatt?"

Judith turned slowly towards Fontana then she beamed at him. Olivia hid her own grin behind her hand as Tammy whispered "This'll be good."

Judith held her smile one second too long...

_...that and the blue-eyed glare she's pinned on Fontana should warn him he's outclassed...._

"The very one," Judith said. "My family has a chalet on _der Getwingstrasse_ with a lovely view of _das Klein Matterhorn_ _und Furgsattel,_ my favorite run. Not to knock Breckenridge..."

She waved her left hand as if shooing the Rockies out of her way.

"...but true Alpine skiing requires Alps. Nothing else will do."

Then, as though the topic was not worth her time, Judith turned back to Couch.

"You were telling me about your upcoming competition," she prompted, "something about the judging?"

Couch's reply began the moment she stopping speaking.

"Yep. For children, head and groin shots aren't allowed. Every child has to wear full sparring gear, including head protection. Adults—now that's a different story…."

The other SVU detectives focused their full attention on Couch's description of groins kicks and protection from such attacks. Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia watched Ed Green nudge his partner, who was still frowning at the back of Judith's head.

"C'mon," Green said, "It's late and I've got plans."

Fontana shook his head slowly then stood. He gave both Munch and Otten a dubious once-over then said his good nights and headed for the door. The SVU detectives murmured good-byes without bothering to look in his direction.

Green hung back long enough to grin at the group.

"I really appreciate this, guys. Thanks."

He followed his partner from the bar. The second the door swung shut, the laughter started.

"That was perfect, Judith."

"And you, Couch. Great teamwork"

"Green looked like he enjoyed it, too. Maybe he's as fed up with Smugtana as we are…."

Judith waved away the praise.

"Thanks, but I hope he isn't into fact-checking."

Munch, who was pouring the last of the lager into his mug, stared at her over his lenses.

"Let me guess—you aren't really Swiss."

She met his stare with one equally cold.

"You're right—I'm not. If Detective Fontana checks, he'll find my family chalet is the Hotel Geistner, run by a cousin of mine and her husband; they give us a discount on rooms if they're available. I also haven't skied _Furgsatte_l or anywhere else in years."

"None of which matters," Fred announced. "You got rid of the Creature from the Two-Seven. For that, you don't have to buy tonight."

"What about the rest of us?" John asked. "We matching pennies or taking turns?"

Fin handed him the empty pitcher.

"Last one to pour from it fills it, partner. You're up."

Sidewalk outside McMullen's Tavern  
23 June

Fontana sorted through the bills in his roll and selected a hundred, which his partner accepted with glee.

"Easiest C-note I've won in months," Green said. "Told you cops ski."

The older man's mustache twitched as his mouth settled into a frown.

"Granted, but the demographics actually don't support your assertion. The two older ones ski, not the young guys. You mark my words—skiing is going the way of shuffleboard. It's all snowboarding nowadays."

Green opened the driver's door of his car.

"Man, all I care about is winning the hundred. You should have seen your face when Otten started talking about the Alps. It was like you could feel your money sliding out of your pocket and into mine."

"Well, when Benson said 'No', I thought I had the bet won. No way I expected Otten to be a skier—much less an _aficionada_."

Fontana rested his arm on the roof of Green's car and pointed at him.

"You think she was pulling my leg?"

Green shrugged as he slid behind the wheel. He started the engine then lowered the passenger window so his partner could hear his answer.

"Easy enough to see if there really is a Fergstaple or whatever on that Matterhorn."

Fontana stepped back to peer at Green through the window.

"You give my C-note back if there isn't?"

Green answered with a low chuckle and a wave as he drove off. Fontana watched him, but his mind was not on his partner's driving.

_I doubt a randomly chosen person would know the name of a Alpine ski resort and its runs unless said person actually skis… easy enough to check… Ed can keep the money—I just want to know if I was snookered by a lovely lady…._

Intensive Care Unit  
Columbia University Medical Center  
23 June

Dale Nicholson's room was directly across from the nurse's station. Munch was by its door chatting with a tall, skinny patrol officer with strawberry blond hair when Fin's arrival interrupted them.

"Fin, this is Officer Skvarna; he's been sitting on Nicholson for us. My partner, Detective Tutuola."

"If you guys are gonna be with him," Skvarna asked, "okay I take a break?"

Munch pointed a finger in Skvarna's direction.

"Don't go far. We only have five minutes during which to wrest a confession from him."

The officer moved his hand towards his baton.

"You need help, let me know. I heard Nicholson shot his dogs. Man who'd shoot his own dog doesn't deserve to live."

The pressure of both detectives' glares urged the officer towards the nearest restroom and coffee machine.

"Where'd he hear that?" Fin asked. "We didn't release that info."

Munch slid open the door to Nicholson's room.

"We'll ask Skvarna after we finished with Nicholson. You want to be warm and cuddly or is that me today?"

"You're primary," Fin said, "you be nice to the perp."

Dale Nicholson was flat on his back and enmeshed in tubes and wires that ran from his fingers, chest, and other body parts to various machines and plastic bags. His eyes opened as they approached the bed and he tracked their movement as they separated, Fin to his left, Munch to his right. John asked Nicholson who and where he was, more to see if he could hear and understand questions than to verify ID.

"I'm Dan Nielson," the suspect said, his voice weak and slow. "Nicholson was the name we were hiding under. Susan... is she...?"

Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes as he stuttered the word "dead."

"Yes, she is," Munch informed him. "We found her naked on your sofa."

"We're naturalists," he said, "never wore clothes at home. What about Timmy? Did Houslet take Timmy?"

Munch raised his eyebrows in a question aimed at Fin.

_Don't ask me... Houslet told me he never got to see his son... maybe this hump used his after-surgery meds to dream up a story for us...._

"We found Timmy dead," Fin told him. "He was right next to his momma."

The puddled tears ran down Nielson's cheeks. He raised his right hand until the telemetry wiring attached to his finger stretched tight then he made clutching motions with his fingers. Munch caught his hand and lowered it to the bed, holding on until Nielson calmed enough to tell his version of what happened.

"Someone knocked and I put my robe on to answer the door. Houslet was there... demanded to see Timmy. I refused and he pulled a gun... said he'd shoot me if he didn't see Susan and Timmy right away. I tried to tell him they weren't home... but Susan brought Timmy out so he wouldn't shoot me.

"He told us to sit on the sofa... he wanted to talk to us. I figured he'd complain about us corrupting Timmy... he wanted to take him from us... but he didn't say anything. He just shot Timmy, then Susan. I couldn't believe it... all I could do was stare at them. I didn't even see him aim at me."

The rap of knuckles on glass interrupted his story. Fin turned to see a ICU nurse at the open door.

"I'm sorry, but we need some time with our patient now."

Nielson swallowed hard then he said, "You find Houslet.. find out why he killed Timmy. He hated me... he hated Susan... he said he loved Timmy."

Munch nodded as he withdrew his hand from Nielson's grasp.

_John knows better than to promise anything… ._

Munch stopped walking a few yards down the hall, out of hearing of Nielson and the nurses working the station.

"That was unexpected," he said. "Think he's well enough to invent a complicated lie like that?"

"Don't know. Houslet was real broken up about his son being dead."

"But Houslet as the shooter," Munch replied, "would explain why the dogs and the birds were killed. Nielson doesn't gain anything from it, but if Houslet hated his ex-wife and her boyfriend enough to kill his son, he'd also kill their pets."

"Man, you're reaching," Fin told him. "Maybe Nielson didn't want his pets to end up in a shelter after he was dead."

Munch pointed down the hall.

"Looks like Skvarna's coming back. You talk to him about the pets. I'll see if the nurses heard anything from Nielson."

Fin waited for the officer to resume his post outside Nielson's room before asking how he had learned about the dead pets.

"It's all over the hospital. Trish—"

He pointed to a older women in salmon-colored scrubs talking to Munch at the nurse's station.

"She said the EMTs who brought Nicholson in told the emergency room staff about murdered pets and fur and feathers covering the whole place."

Fin scowled at that news

_EMTs know better than to talk about their patients and our cases... Cragen's gonna have their and their supervisor's asses for this...._

"How about visitors?" Fin next asked. "Nielson have any?"

"Nope. No one's been inside 'cept hospital personnel—before you ask, I checked everyone's ID. The room next door had a bunch of people right before the guy died, but none of them even looked this way. Only other person I saw last night didn't hang around."

"Describe him."

"Caucasian, mid-thirties, sandy hair, blues jeans and a dark blue shirt with a collar. Like I said, he was here around 2 a.m. and stayed just long enough to figure out he was in the wrong place."

Fin thanked Skvarna then waited by the elevators for Munch to finish with the nurses.

When John joined him, his tight-lipped frown told Fin nothing new had been learned from the hospital staff.

_Here's some more bad news, John…._

"EMTs told everyone about the dogs and the parrots."

Munch stabbed the elevator call button.

"Damn it—that's the same as phoning it to the news desk."

"Yeah. Skvarna also said a man fitting Houslet's description was here about two a.m."

Munch stopped poking the call button and peered at Fin.

"So maybe Nielson isn't lying."

"And maybe he is. Lots of people wear blue shirts."

"I don't. You don't."

"Blue ain't my color. You might try it—be a change from those ratty black suits of yours."

Munch ignored that crack.

"Casey's ready to charge Nielson," he said. "We agreed on him?"

Fin mulled the question over.

_It's an easy close… but if it falls apart before trial, Cap'n will know we were lazy…._

"Won't take long to see when Houslet arrived," Fin said, "and if he stayed in his hotel all night or—"

"—tried to visit an sick friend in his hospital room," Munch finished for him. "Much as I hate to say it, we still have work to do."

SVU Squad Room  
16th Precinct  
24 June

Obtaining Bridget Shanahan's financials required a subpoena and Casey Novak had finagled one for Olivia the day before. A copy of Shanahan's bank records arrived just as the shift meeting began. The updates on current cases went ignored while Olivia eyed the envelope laying on her desk.

_I'm expecting frequent cash deposits... large sums from unnamed sources... more expenses than her paycheck can cover—all paid for in cash… Shanahan enjoying her designer decor while Raymond Smith spends the past two days at Rikers struggling for every breath… I can't wait to rub Elliot's nose in this…._

The two detectives had spent yesterday's shift being very nice to each other. He had fetched coffee, one mug for each she had brought him, but sullen handoffs had replaced the joking that usually accompanied such favors. Olivia spent the time working their other cases while Elliot eliminated Chet Kincaid as a suspect; the man was bedridden and his wife chatted with Bridget during her visits.

The assembled detectives were gathered in two clusters for the shift meeting: the outgoing shift in a loose semicircle around Howie Brewster, the incoming shift similarly arranged behind Stabler. Cragen usually occupied the center space; today, he stood by Brewster while Howie gave everyone the latest on his Web porn case.

"We have two local possibilities," Brewster announced, "the Fleur-de-Lys Motel in Hicksville and the Miles Motor Lodge on Staten Island. Both are mom-and-pop places with no history of prostitution or other serious crimes. Susan and I will check on Hicksville tonight with the Long Island P.D. Greg and Jason have Staten Island. Greg, I talked to Sergeant Oppenheimer at the One-Two-Four. You'll coordinate with him for backup."

Howie stepped back to let Elliot take over. Olivia heard him run through the Smith case…

_No mention of how he's railroading Smith…._

…then Munch told how he and Fin were waiting for security tapes to arrive from Rick Houslet's hotel. That was followed by Couch's update on the Dykeman rapes case.

"We had another one last night—same M.O., same area. The first rape was ten days ago. This doesn't match the timing between the earlier burglaries, so I can't say anything yet about a pattern other than he definitely likes Inwood."

Tammy and Fred accepted praise for the arrest of an old boyfriend of Sandy Echols, a man she hadn't mentioned in earlier interviews because he had moved to the Midwest after they broke up. Subsequent investigation showed her ex-boyfriend had moved back after losing his job, something he irrationally blamed on his victim.

Olivia fidgeted through the captain's announcements. The moment Cragen released them, she snatched the envelope from her desk and opened it, so intent on its contents that she perched on her desk rather than in her chair.

Manhattan Investments Account summaries for Bridget Shanahan:

Professionally Managed Accounts:  
Brokerage account: $ 463,634.90

Positions:  
Manhattan Municipal Money Market $ 61,158.15  
Cash Reserves $ 10,071.35  
Carlton Value Investor $ 53,888.25  
Oldtown Overseas Opportunity $ 19,045.30

There were more investment positions listed. Olivia skimmed over the stock and bond funds names without recognizing any of them. She then read through the check card and checkbook activity on Shanahan's money market account.

_Shit... nothing but her paychecks going in... nothing but rent and everyday expenses going out... no large cash deposits... no frivolous spending... she's as boring as I am...._

"Anything interesting in there?"

The question came from Elliot, who was seated at his desk, an open manila folder before him.

"No, nothing."

She slid the report into its envelope and tossed it on her desk. Elliot picked up his folder and handed it to her.

"Then try this one," he said.

_Fine… whatever..._

She took the folder from him and began to read it.

_Fingerprint Identification: Albert R. Sikkens, white, 47 years old, 5'10", 180 pounds, brown and brown…. most recently convicted of Sexual Battery Unspecified and sentenced to ten years at Liberty Correctional Institute in Florida… love that name… other priors: Traffic in Stolen Property, Grand Theft Auto, Felony Battery…._

The photo accompanying the report was that of a younger, thinner Raymond Smith.

_Damn...._

Olivia kept her gaze on the photo before her.

_Better looking at it than seeing Elliot's 'I told you so" smirk...._

The scrape of chair wheels on linoleum followed by footsteps warned her that Elliot was coming to gloat up-close and in person.

_Damn...._

SVU Squad Room  
24 June

_I'm standing only four feet away from Cap, but it's like being in Siberia…._

Elliot watched as Cragen commented on the care Brewster's shift had put into the Web porn investigation. He saw how the captain focused on Sofarelli during his update and how he moved close to Tierney and White when he congratulated them on their arrest.

_My case didn't get jack from him…_

He listened to the announcements and updates, noticing how Cragen made eye contact with everyone in the unit—except him.

_It's been over a week since I watched him fool Sullivan into believing that he was broken and defeated by our ex-chief… it was a great performance… is it really my fault if I fell for it, too?_

The shift meeting ended. Half of Howie's shift headed out the door; the four involved with the two motels gathered around Brewster's desk to confirm their arrangements.

_This is when Cap and I would discuss my shift's cases… the two of us in his office… since Operation Chestnut, he heads straight to his desk without a word to me, which is what he's doing right now…. a week ago, I went in after him… I apologized again for not trusting him… all I got was a cold hard stare and the suggestion that I had cases to work… Cap never holds a grudge… he's been mad before, but not like this…._

Elliot got a mug of coffee then walked past John and Fin to his desk. John was paging through a newspaper while the departmental logo and header on Fin's monitor showed he was checking e-mail.

_Maybe Fin was right when he said Cap would react like a victim to what Sullivan, Wilkerson, and Lau did to him … maybe this is post-traumatic stress… he can't get at the people who broke his arm, held him at gunpoint, and almost ruined his career and reputation, so he's dumping on me… displaced anger and resentment… not that labeling it fixes the problem…._

He settled into his chair. Across from him, Olivia was perched on the corner of her desk and frowning at a financial printout.

_Looks like Liv didn't get the info she wanted… she's another one I don't understand… Bridget Shanahan was raped, but my partner takes Smith's side… rape is rape—doesn't matter if the perp's feeble and wheezes…._

"Here's that report you've been wanting for."

Chloe held out a manila folder, which Elliot took with thanks. In it were the results of Smith's fingerprint check.

_Holy shit… someone screwed up big time…._

Olivia was still holding the financials, but her attention was focused on the floor, not the data.

_Might as well get this over with…._

"Anything interesting in there?" he asked.

Her head jerked up as his words broke her train of thought.

"No, nothing."

She slid the report into its envelope and tossed it on her desk. Elliot picked up his folder and handed it to her.

"Then try this one," he said.

He watched her scan through the report. When she reached Sikken's photo, her eyes went wide and she stared at it as though hypnotized as she mouthed the word 'Damn.' Elliot got up and walked around his desk, stopping by her shoulder so his words would not be overheard.

"Look, Liv—you fell for his act, but it's not like you let a perp walk. Don't worry about it."

The folder crumpled in her grip.

"So I was wrong—it happens."

She raised her head and glared at him.

"What gets me is how you just blew me off about it."

He eased back on his heels, putting a few inches between them. Olivia stood up, a move that closed the gap. Her eyes had narrowed and her lips were compressed into a frown, an expression that he knew was warning of a Benson blow-up.

_Great… on top of everything else, I must have hit the wrong time of the month… try smiling and backing off a bit… maybe she'll forget about this…._

"What did you want me to do?" he asked.

"I had a viable theory of the crime," she told him. "You didn't even pretend I might be right."

_'Pretend?' We're not playing games here… screw this… I'm not taking shit from you over your mistakes…._

"That wasn't a theory, Liv. It was a cockamamie notion you cooked up—Bridget Shanahan, high-priced call girl for the disabled."

He pointed at the financial report in its envelope on her desk.

"I'll bet those financials show an inheritance or insurance money—maybe Lotto winnings she's living on."

Benson's lips went pale, so tight was her frown.

_Got it right in one… now, admit Smith is Bridget's attacker and let's move on from here—find out how he went from Sikkens in Florida to Smith up here…._

Olivia rammed the corner of the fingerprint report into his tie.

"None of this proves," she protested, "that Smith is physically able to attack, pin, and rape anyone."

Stabler stared gape-mouthed at her then he shook his head.

_What the fuck? He's served time for battery and sexual assault… why stick up for him? You're not making sense…._

"Okay, Liv," he said, his hands raised in mock surrender, "Buy Smith's story—hell, for all I care, post his bail and give him the key to your place. I'll warn Casey to keep you off the witness list."

He spun on his heel and stalked back to his chair, so riled by her mule-headedness that his thoughts exploded through his lips.

"Stupid... stubborn," he muttered, "sick of your daddy issues...."

A folder smacked his monitor hard enough to shove it askew on its base. Olivia glared down at him, her whole body quivering in anger.

_Oh, shit…_

A swift backhand throw sent the folder at his head. By the time he recovered from dodging it, she had dashed through the door and disappeared around the corner. Elliot braced himself to go after her then settled back in his chair.

_Better she calm down on her own… she has all the facts… she'll see how wrong she is… I can apologize for what I said later… but I might be right… maybe she needs some time with Huang to sort things out…._


	5. Tropical Disturbance: part three

A/N: Fin's history is based partially on an interview Ice-T gave about the character.

WYNY was a FM country station in NYC (call letters since retired); I'm using it as a TV station.

Manhattan SVU Squad Room  
24 June

The smack of folder against computer screen had attracted the attention of everyone in the room. As soon he noted the source...

_Olivia? _

... John unfurled his paper and hid behind it.

_Better Elliot than me... I've had enough grief from pissed-off women to fill several lifetimes…._

As soon as Benson left, all eyes were on Stabler to see if he would follow his partner. When he did not, they then turned to Cragen's office, but the captain had his phone to his ear and showed no sign of witnessing the outburst. With no further fireworks to entertain them, Brewster and his detectives turned back to their planning and everyone else returned to their own concerns.

"That was interesting," Fin commented as John refolded his paper.

"Looks like things aren't all sunshine and lollipops between Elliot and Liv."

"You should go over and find out why."

John's grin was all teeth and no humor.

"Not until I forget the last fist that hit me."

The quip earned a snort from Fin, but no further response. John glanced around the room, his attention settling longest on Brewster's group.

_If they find that motel room tonight, that will end the Web porn evidence viewing… Tech will dismantle Howie's cozy incident room and his equipment will go back onto storage… good thing I brought Marguerite Geistner with me today…._

Munch slipped the folio of art by Otten's mother into the fold of his newspaper. He then casually rose from his chair, to all appearances in need of some quiet time in the men's room.

"Chloe said Weaver called," Fin said as John walked past him. "He's got those surveillance tapes and is on his way."

Munch grunted in reply. A quick check over his shoulder showed that no one else had paid attention to his departure.

_Good…_

The incident room was empty. John fired up the flatbed scanner and laid the large book across it. The scanning software sent the image to the nearer monitor.

_Nice, very nice… now to crop the caption—no sense in playing "Guess the Detective" if the answer is obvious…._

A few more keystrokes produced a crisp, clear print of a teenaged Judith Otten sandwiched between two black activists clothed in black leather pants and wool turtlenecks, their carefully unkempt Afros forming an arch over the distinctly sullen-looking girl. John snagged two strips of tape and placed them carefully on the top and bottom edges of the paper.

Voila! Now, to wander over to the refrigerator, affix this to its door and let the fun begin….

The incident room's door opened and Fin's head poked in.

"Been looking for you. Those tapes are here. What are you doing?"

Munch held the taped photo below the level of the computer table.

"Checking out the equipment. I'm a tax-payer and I want to see how my money's being misspent."

Fin entered the room and frowned at his partner.

"You wanted to see this stuff, you could have helped view some of Howie's downloads. You also shouldn't leave a book open like that; you'll break its spine."

He walked over to the scanner and picked up the folio.

"'Marguerite Geistner: Collected Works," he read. "This isn't for a case. What—"

Fin flipped the book over to see the page that Munch had scanned.

"—the hell you scanning this for?"

John grinned as he held up the photo.

"A little game of 'Guess Who This Is?'"

Fin lunged forward and snatched the paper from John's hand. John reached out to grab it back, but Fin wadded it one-handed and stuffed it in his pocket.

"This and the book go with me," Fin snarled at his partner. "You find some other game to play."

Fin backed out the door while glaring at John, whose shock at his partner's actions was so total, the door swung shut before he could react. He leapt from his chair and shoved the door open with both hands.

"Hey, wait—that's my book!" he shouted after Fin.

Fin's sleek plait shook back and forth as he turned left into the stairwell. By the time John reached the stairs, even the echoes of Fin's footsteps had faded.

_Upstairs to the unit? Downstairs to—to where? If he puts it in his locker, I can snake the key from his desk and get it back easily… if he takes it to his car, then I'll have to work harder, maybe even beg...._

Munch leaned against the wall and pursed his lips as he thought.

_I know Don has him watching Otten for signs of stress the same way I'm watching Couch, but he's supposed to have my back, not hers... he better not be siding with her… but he took my book... and he likes her baked goods... she rode in with him a week ago Thursday... didn't hear him gripe the way he does when it's me...._

Remembering Fin's continuous muttering about driving brought another sore point to mind.

_I lean on Fin a lot... he handles the heavy lifting of a case better than I can now... if he ever stops supporting me, people might assume I'm over-the-hill...._

Thinking of the age difference between Fin and him made Munch's left hip twinge. He shifted his weight onto his right leg.

_I'm pushing retirement age, but I'm actually junior to every one except Couch and Tammy... that's why Don brought Otten in... she has experience and skill and a few more years' of tread left on her... no limps, hasn't gone completely gray yet... pulls her own weight... sucks up to people... solves Fin's cases for him... bakes his favorite treats...._

The evidence roiled through John's brain and it came up with a conclusion.

_Which is why Fin is taking Otten's side against me… book-stealing, muffin-eating turncoat...._

Down on the street, Fin slammed the lid of his truck closed. Inside, under a toolbox and a tarp, the book and the wadded photo were hidden from sight.

_Don't dare throw these things away… someone might find them… ._

He scowled at the people around him, the uniforms on the sidewalk enjoying a fast cigarette or a hot dog from the corner vendor and the office workers heading for the bus stop one block over….

_None of them John... I took off so fast, he couldn't catch up... good—last thing I want to hear right now is him whining at me about his book... an art book—what in hell is that photo doing in an art book? I get home tonight—I gotta read through and find out… is this something only John would stumble over or can anyone find it?_

His scowl deepened and a couple hurrying passed him cringed and side-stepped.

Fin didn't notice.

_'Guess Who This Is'... last thing I want is anyone guessing that one... John must have... can't keep anything hidden from that man... y'think he'd understand—what with his background and shit... but the fool decided to make a game of it... put me up for public ridicule...._

Ice filled his bones at that last thought, a chill born of rage and fear.

_Expose my life and make fun of me—all at the same time... not sure I can forgive John for that...._

Manhattan SVU Squad Room  
24 June

Couch Sofarelli also kept his head low during the Benson-Stabler dustup.

_Mental note—in the right hands, manila folders are deadly weapons…._

He continued working on an map of the area targeted by the Dykeman Rapist, the name bestowed on the case because it had no suspects and too many victims. Each click of Couch's mouse marked the location of one of the burglaries with lewd acts that his former unit had investigated. After them, he added the location of the two rapes. When the map was completed, he displayed it on the glass wall that Cragen had approved for his use. Its presence behind Judith's desk with its multi-colored HD renderings of the map, victims, timelines, and other data proved that the Dykeman case now had top priority.

Otten was on the phone; the big smile on her face gave no clue as to the reason for her conversation. As soon as she hung up, Couch asked about it.

"That was Ed Tucker," she told him. "Last night, I kept my promise to facilitate his transfer to Brooklyn South by standing drinks for my old unit."

"And you're able to smile about it?"

"I stuck to tonic water. Anyway, the plan worked—when I left, Ed was arm in arm with Sid and Jamal and singing 'We are the Champions' in three-part harmony. He called to tell me about everyone's hangovers and that my ploy worked—not a single rat joke all day."

"What did that set you back?"

She lowered her voice before answered.

"About $400—they didn't drink the cheap stuff. It's money well-spent, given what Ed did."

The teeth dug into her upper lip warned Couch that she was remembering the warehouse where she and Tucker had pursued, then shot, Detective Greg Lau, Internal Affairs agent...

_...and a blackmailer and murderer... I would think she could blow off his death, but Judith believes that everyone deserves a chance to atone for their mistakes... by killing Lau, she kept him from receiving forgiveness from his victims... not sure I understand that... maybe it's a Jewish thing...._

Judith stayed pensive long enough to concern her partner. He crossed his arms on the desk top and leaned toward her.

"You okay?"

She twitched then focused on him.

"I'm fine. You?"

"Never better."

_...except for being worried my partner isn't right in the head... what if she freezes like this on the street? Maybe justified shootings should have a max per career—three and you retire... Judith's at that point...'course, I don't know how long it takes to get over anything like this... I've never being under fire... maybe Elliot, after he calms down, can explain—_

Judith pointed over her shoulder at the glass wall.

"In the meantime, what's the plan for catching this guy?"

Couch checked his partner; her eyes bright and focused on him, voice strong—she appeared to be all there again. After a mental note to talk to Elliot, he shrugged an answer to her question.

"Nothing other than what we're already doing. We checked all the pawn shops and known fences when it was still Robbery's case; searched on-line, too—craigslist, e-Bay and the other auction sites. None of the items ever showed up."

"Isn't that a long time to hold onto stolen goods?"

"Yep and I doubt the perp needs that many trophies."

Judith chuckled.

"Maybe he likes clutter."

"Maybe. Lt. Anders is continuing to check fences and pawn brokers for us. I've talked with the 3-4 and 3-3; their patrols will watch for activity on fire escapes."

"It's summer, Couch. Everyone uses fire escapes as balconies."

"I know. Getting people to close and lock windows will be impossible, but we have to try everything when nothing is working."

"You talked to your snitches?"

"Until we're all sick of seeing me—nada."

Judith drew in a deep breath just so she could exhale a giant sigh at their chances of quick success.

"Praying for a break is next on my list," Couch said, "that and reinterviewing yesterday's victim. She is staying with her sister in Queens. We're set for 9:00—after her sister gets off work."

A clatter of wood against floor startled both of them. The noise came from Munch's chair, which lay sideways on the linoleum with Munch bent at the waist over it.

"Damn it to hell!" he shouted as he rubbed his shin. "Why can't we have chairs that don't tip over?"

Judith spun her own chair to face him.

"Chairs are like Animal Farm," she said. "'Four legs good, two legs bad.' Maybe a remedial sitting class would help."

Munch snarled at her. She held his glare for a moment then turned away. He grabbed his chair by its back and set it upright before collapsing into it, muttering the entire time in what sounded like Russian.

"Was that smart?" Couch asked in a low voice.

"I get tired of taking it," Judith replied. "Sauce for the goose, you know."

She picked up the notes from his interview with the most recent Dykeman victim and began to read as though Munch weren't still muttering at her from his desk.

_Glad I don't know Russian... from the sound of it, John probably could blister paint right now... well, they're both adults; they'll work it out…._

Stairwell: 3rd floor landing  
Sixteenth Precinct  
24 June

Her dash from the unit may have been unplanned, but Olivia chose her destination carefully. Figuring that Elliot would check the women's restroom first—the sanctity of restrooms near SVU was ignored regularly by all genders—she bypassed it for the locker room.

_Not that getting away helped any… I've stopped shaking, but I'd still happily kill him with my bare hands…._

Thirty minutes of sitting in a shower stall, the closest thing to privacy available in the station house, hadn't resolved anything else for her. She had tried to reason her way through Elliot's verbal attack, but her thoughts kept following the same mental path.

_He didn't back me on the Shanahan finances… he thought I was completely off-base… questioned my professionalism and abilities… thinks I have Oedipal issues and isn't honest enough to say it to my face… I've been there for him… the shooting, Kathy's leaving… I listen to his 'I miss my family' angst over and over—doesn't he realize what that sounds like to me? How it feels? Thoughtless jerk—after all the crap I've put up with from him, how dare he question anything I do?_

She left the locker room more from a sense of duty than any desire to sit across from her partner and listen to him apologize…

_As if he even knew the meaning of that word… if he did, maybe he wouldn't be living in a barely furnished apartment and sleeping in the crib most nights…._

…or listen to him not apologize…

_More likely, he'll hide behind a case folder and hope I'll be the first to say something… not this time… you went too far over the line for me to pretend it didn't happen…._

Outside the locker room, Olivia hesitated before the elevator door then spun around and pushed open the stairwell door.

_I need the exercise… I need the extra time the stairs will take…._

Below her, Fin was climbing up from the second floor. The scowl on his face threatened to melt the steel and concrete treads before he finished trudging up them.

"Fin? Something wrong?"

His head snapped up and he pinned her with a glare so fierce that she immediately squared her stance and braced herself for a fight.

_C'mon—it's Fin... he's not mad at you... some perp, maybe, but not you...._

The next second, his expression softened.

"Hey, Liv. You okay?"

"Yeah," she replied, "I'll do."

He took the remaining steps to the landing and stopped before her.

"You need a few days away from Elliot?"

The tension in her chest loosened with his words.

_A few days without choosing my words carefully, without listening to how awful it is to be away from his family, a few days with someone who doesn't resent and distrust me...._

"I wouldn't mind that at all."

"I need a break, too. Let's go see Cragen."

He pulled open the door and held it for her. Olivia started to ask why, but the cold, flat glaze in his eyes and the white-knuckled grip he had on the door warned her not to ask.

_Maybe Fin lost the hero-sidekick argument—but hey, if it gets me away from Elliot, I'm all for it...._

Fin didn't say a word in the elevator nor while they walked through the halls and crossed the squad room. Olivia saw Munch's gaze follow Fin's progress to the captain's office while Elliot kept his own eyes on the paperwork in front of him.

_John cares enough to wonder what's going on and you don't... bastard...._

Cragen's door was ajar. Although he was on the phone, he waved them in.

"Tuesday works for me," he said into the phone. "That will give me time to review the notes from previous arbitration and the last OCB ruling—yeah, yeah… I can go over that, too."

Olivia took a seat and fidgeted with the hem of her sweater while Cragen talked. Fin sat stiffly beside her.

_Fin's all steel and ice... something happened between John and him... maybe he'll explain when we talk to Cragen...._

Cragen said his good-byes and replaced the phone receiver. Before he could say anything, Fin spoke up.

"Cap'n, with your permission, Olivia and I'd like to work together for a few days. I'm gonna need her help putting Houslet at the scene and Elliot wants John's expertise figuring out how Sikkens became Smith."

The phone rang again. Cragen raised an index finger.

"Hold that thought."

The call's ID displayed with the second ring.

"I have to take this," Cragen said. "John and Stabler on-board?"

Fin nodded once. Olivia backed him up with a smile.

"Then you're good to go."

Cragen snatched up the phone while mouthing "Close the door" at them. The last thing Olivia heard before the door latched behind her was "Councilman Baker—how are you? And Shelley?"

_He's schmoozing... so busy politicking that he completely missed what Fin and I slid past him...._

Fin didn't give her time to finish that thought. He strode into the space between his and Olivia's desk and stood with his back to his partner. She stopped an arm's length away from him and glanced around the room.

John was blatantly staring at them. Judith gave a quick glance their way, then a sideways one at Munch as though expecting any action to come from him. The other three detectives were clustered about the coffee pot, their attention riveted on its contents. Elliot's posture showed he was attempting to ignore her while trying to see what she was doing.

_Fine… act like you don't care…._

Fin paid no attention to who was watching whom.

"Liv and me," he announced, "will be watching the hotel tapes in Howie's incident room; it's our case now. You and Munch are working the Smith case. Cap'n approved it. Liv, you need coffee first?"

"No," she answered, "I'm good."

She breezed past Elliot without making eye contact. He sat bolt upright in his chair, all pretense of not caring gone. His face and neck were red and his lips parted as though about to call her name.

_I'm not listening... I've heard all I want from you...._

Munch was Elliot's exact opposite—pale, slumped, jaw sagging behind compressed lips and his gaze fixed on Fin's departing form. The confusion behind his dark lenses tore at Olivia.

_Something big happened while I was gone… John and Fin snipe at each other, but they never blow up the way Elliot does… their carping is a safety valve that prevents explosion… maybe I don't want to get into this—I don't know what happened…._

She glanced back at Elliot and their gazes locked. His blue eyes seemed to dare her to leave him. Nothing in his posture or expression showed confusion or sorrow at what he'd said to her.

_Cram that self-righteous anger right back down your throat before I do it for you. You aren't the injured party… let's see what a few day's on your own gets you…_

She grabbed the door and gave it a push as she left. It swung shut with a satisfying loud click of its latch.

Behind her in the squad room, six detectives stared at various inanimate objects: Elliot and John at the door Olivia had shut, Judith at Munch's desk, Couch at the computer monitor blacking his view of Elliot's face. Fred and Tammy examined the coffeepot, waiting for someone else to say something.

Elliot broke the silence first.

"They want it that way, then great—it's fine with me."

He slid his chair to the left.

"I'm going to Riker's and see Smith. You coming?"

John drew in a deep breath through his nose. The air seemed to reinflate him; his spine straightened until he sat with his head held high.

"Yeah. Got the case folder? I'll need to review it."

Elliot snatched it from Olivia's desk and tossed it to him. They left the squad room and checked out a sedan without another word between them. While John buried his nose in the case folder, Elliot tried to puzzle things out as he drove.

_How did Olivia rope Fin into this? Better question—how'd she get it past Cragen? Make that 'stupid question'…he probably jumped at the chance to screw me over again… damn, but Cap can hold a grudge… he's always had a soft spot for Liv… only her, not other women like Tammy or Monique… if she has Cragen feeling fatherly, then that's more proof I'm right…._

The next few minutes were spent fuming at Olivia. A grunt from John at the jolt of a pothole changed the tenor of his thoughts.

_Olivia isn't the only one pissed off… Fin was deliberately ignoring John… something happened between them, too… John was as floored by it as I was…._

John looked up from the case folder.

"Your perp voluntarily picked 'Raymond Wayne Smith' as his name?"

"Looks like," Elliot said. "What's so odd about that?"

"A significant number of murderers have Wayne as their first or middle names. I assume you've heard of John Wayne Gacy and Wayne Adam Ford."

He stopped talking. Elliot drove a block before realizing that John was waiting for a response.

"Okay, I heard of them," Elliot said. "Gacy was the Killer Clown; he tortured, raped, and murdered over thirty boys and young men in Chicago. Ford killed four women while driving long-haul trucks out West."

"There's also Wayne Williams, Patrick Wayne Kearney, Wayne DuMond, Wayne Adam Ford, Elmer Wayne Henley, and dozens more. According to Chuck Shepherd, 155 men who were charged or convicted of murder had the middle name 'Wayne'. Add to them all those with Wayne as their first name and I have to wonder about the wisdom of trading Albert R. Sikkens for Raymond Wayne Smith. He might as well have chosen 'I.M. Sociopath'."

"Chuck Shepherd," said Elliot, "isn't he the 'News of the Weird' guy? Stories about Jesus seen on grilled cheese sandwiches and frogs in salad packages?"

John nodded as a sly smile curved his mouth.

"You want to make something of my choice of news sources?"

"No," replied Elliot. "Just asking."

John's sideways glance and pursed lips told Elliot he had given the wrong answer.

"Look, John—I'm not much on small talk. Sorry."

John removed his glasses and blinked forlornly, a feeling Elliot shared.

_Thirty minutes and this already sucks…_

Incident Room, 5th floor  
Sixteenth Precinct  
24 June

Fin handed Olivia a photo from the case folder and two CD-ROMs sealed in evidence bags before he inserted another CD into one of the computer towers.

"We're looking for Rick Houslet, former husband of Susan Nielson. According to Dan Nielson, he killed Susan and their son Timmy and then shot Nielson and their pets. A uniform watching Nielson at the hospital saw a man near Nielson's room night before last around 2 a.m. The guy's clothing resembled what Houslet was wearing when I talked to him—blue collared shirt and jeans."

Olivia examined the photo then loaded one of the CD-ROMs.

"Did Houslet know which hospital Nielson is in?"

"Yeah," Fin said. "I told him. Thought he was a grieving parent."

"Then let's find out if he is or isn't."

Security video streams, whether on tape or other media, are mostly views of empty halls, elevators, or doorways. Olivia fast-forwarded through the boring parts and paid careful attention whenever she spotted a human being in camera range.

_Hallway outside elevators on Houslet's floor: Room Service arriving at 11:37 p.m., older couple arriving at 12:02 a.m., Room Service departing at 12:04 a.m., young man in suit with porter and luggage arriving at 12:21 a.m., porter departing at 12:26 a.m.…._

She paused the video feed at the point with the best view of the man's face..

"Got a man in blue shirt and jeans entering the elevator at 1:05 a.m."

Fin nodded.

"That's Houslet."

He checked the label on the second CD he had then he changed out the CD he was watching. Olivia stood behind him while he fast-forwarded a view of the hotel's front entrance until the time stamp show 1:05 a.m. then set it to play forward slowly.

"There he is—getting into Yellow Cab 2Z85. Let's find out where he went."

He noted the security CD and its time stamp then replaced it in its evidence bag, actions Olivia duplicated with the elevator CD.

"You get a car. I'll tell Elliot where we're going," Fin said. "If you need to know about this case, you got it. You don't need to know what happened with me and Munch."

Olivia stifled a smile.

_He makes it sound like this is a one-night stand… I'm not cheating on my partner… more like giving him a taste of his own medicine…_

"Suits me and same here."

Fin nodded once before heading to the stairs. Olivia turned the opposite way, toward the elevators.

_Nothing but police work—cases, vics and perps…no brooding, no angst, no pseudo-psychology… no suspicion or betrayal from my partner… nothing but professional behavior… working with Fin will be a welcome vacation…._

Laburnum Avenue  
Queens, NY  
24 June

Judith was driving back to the house. In the passenger seat, Couch expanded his notes from Judy Oliver's second interview.

"Nothing new," he said. "I'd hoped she might remember something."

"Some cases," Judith reminded him, "are a long, hard slog, but we'll get there. By the way, that call I got while you were with the vic—that was Casey. The Afghan Consulate acknowledged receipt of her request for assistance for Asma Ehsan. They'll investigate the reasons for her travel after she arrives then keep an official eye on her while she is in the country."

The sarcasm Judith used for "an official eye" showed her opinion of Afghan consulate assistance.

"I don't disagree with you," Couch said. "If the people watching Asma follow tribal law, it's worse than useless—but it's all we have."

His partner scowled at the windshield.

"I have lots of accrued vacation. If I knew Farsi, I'd follow her myself."

"And get yourself hurt, too. You're not Rambo and this isn't a movie."

His cell phone chimed.

"Sofarelli."

His next words were not English. Judith listened hard, but the words were not cognate to a language she knew. Her partner's raised eyebrows did nothing to ease her worries.

"That," Couch said as he snapped his phone shut, "was Admad Ehsan. He wants to meet us for sushi."

Judith's laughter caught him off-guard.

"I'm not kidding," Couch said. "Ehsan said it was important that we meet tomorrow at a place where no one will recognize him. He suggested Tum Yum Sushi at 1 p.m."

A red light halted their progress. Judith twisted in her seat to face him.

"Honor rape and sushi—I try telling this to the guys back at Brooklyn South, they'll know aliens kidnapped my brain."

Manhattan SVU Squad Room  
24 June

_It's a quarter to eleven… no one in the place except Tammy and me… and three uniforms, Chloe, and Charlie Reger from Robbery snaking some of our coffee… if the phone stays quiet for seventy-five more minutes, we can go home and let whoever's on-call worry about things…_

"Don't yawn, Fred. It's catchy."

"Then do something exciting," he told his partner. "Keep me awake."

The phone on Tammy's desk rang.

"Is this exciting enough?" she asked as she picked up the receiver with her right hand and a pen with her left. "Special Victims, Detective White."

Fred craned his neck, ready to read upside-down whatever notes she would take from the call.

"No, I would not like to comment. I suggest you speak with One Police Plaza if you need a statement."

Tammy hung up then looked to her partner.

"That was Cyndy Sierens from NY8 News wanting a comment on how SVU and the M.E. mistreat and disrespect companion animals. Must be that case with the dead pets."

"You and me," Fred groused, "we arrested a rapist. Does she ask about that? No, she wants to know why a dead animal doesn't get buried at Arlington with full military honors."

"Let it lie, Fred," his partner said. "I'm sure it will die down. No one's gonna blow their stack over how we treat evidence, even if the evidence is a dead poodle."

Two by two, the other detectives arrived back at their desks. Judith and Couch were first. Couch sent an e-mail to Cragen about the call from Ehsan while Judith updated the case notes.

Olivia and Fin were next. The cabbie who had #2Z85 on the night in question had taken a fare from the hotel to Columbia-Presbyterian; he dropped him at the main entrance around 1:34 a.m. He said the fare only told him his destination—nothing else.

Olivia was adding that info to the case notes when a loud "Shit!" drew her attention to Fin. He was staring at the cell phone in his hand.

"The Cap'n just called," he told her. "WYNY got a whole bunch of people riled because we treated the Nielson's pets like evidence and not like people. He's mad because they're mad."

Olivia sighed.

_Nothing like irate citizens to draw One PP's attention. People call the Commissioner and it all rolls down hill onto us…._

Elliot and John dragged in at quarter to midnight with matching glum expressions. Olivia kept her eyes on the Houslet folder and ignored Elliot's scowls. Fin shifted his work so his line of sight did not include Munch slumped in his chair.

Only Couch was brave enough to ask how the trip to Rikers went.

"Just peachy," Munch told him. "Smith admitted he's Sikkens, but still won't cop to the rape. Shanahan, however, has recanted. All in all, it's been a lovely evening."


	6. Tropical Depression: part one

Manhattan Homicide  
Twenty-seventh Precinct  
24 June

The victim was Alberto Pereira, seventy-nine, stabbed three times and discovered dead in his apartment after the tenant below complained of a stain on her bedroom ceiling. With no suspects and no idea who Mr. Pereira's friends or family might be, Fontana and Green were reduced to cold-calling numbers from an old personal directory found in the victim's nightstand.

"KL5-6930, KL5-1139," Green recited as he flipped pages. "BU8, PE6, NH9—when did the phone company stop using letters in their phone numbers?"

While he waited for an answer from Fontana, Green called the first number. When the call proved unhelpful, Green hung up then checked on his still silent partner. Fontana had his chin propped on his left hand as he stared at the unit's sole laptop. His right hand poked at its keyboard.

"Do you know," Fontana asked his partner, "that Judith Otten speaks five languages?"

"Nope. You gonna make some calls?"

"She really is from Switzerland. She has two sons; one's on the job at the 65th, the other's a public defender."

"Sorry to hear that. How 'bout you start with the 'Z's and work forward?"

Fontana poked his keyboard again.

"She's been on the job thirty-two years and has _beaucoup_ commendations. I'm impressed."

"So'm I. Want me to dial for you?"

A beatific smile curved Joe's lips.

"She's widowed."

"Joe, you gonna make any of these calls?"

Fontana looked up from his screen and beamed at his partner.

"You think I should call Judith?

Green shot out of his seat and lunged across the desk at Fontana.

"Fuck her! I'm talkin' canvass calls!"

In the silence that immediately followed, Ed felt the pressure of every gaze in the room. Worse, the tap of fingernails on his shoulder told him that Lt. Van Buren had witnessed his outburst.

"Sit down, Detective," she said softly. "Fontana, my office."

As soon as Fontana's butt hit her side chair, the lieutenant lit into the older man.

"What the hell has got into you? You're paid to crack cases, not moon over your latest squeeze."

Fontana's posture stiffened as though her words were a deadly insult.

"Detective Otten is an honorable woman."

"An honorable woman," retorted Van Buren, "wouldn't be caught dead with you."

A wistful smile ruffled his mustache.

"Possibly," Fontana replied, "but I hope not."

Van Buren leaned against her desk and crossed her arms. Her position gave her scant inches of height over her subordinate despite his artfully casual slouch.

"You run out of floozies in Manhattan?"

"No."

"Getting too old to catch 'em?"

He snorted hard in disagreement.

"My grandfather could stun a steer with one blow at the age of seventy-seven," he told her. "My father is overseeing the renovation of a building in Lincoln Park and he's pushing ninety. I'll be one hundred before I start to slow down."

The wistful smile returned to his face.

"With those genes," he said, "comes the Fontana Curse."

"The what?"

The glint in the detective's eyes warned Van Buren that the shit Fontana usually gave her was about to get deep.

"The Curse—that's what my brother Nick calls it. Men in my family fall immediately and permanently in love—all it takes is one glimpse of the right woman. My grandfather fell for a girl whose family was set to emigrate; he took the next boat to New York then followed her to Chicago. He worked in the slaughterhouses and the local butcher shop to support her and to pay his parents back for his ticket.

"My father was walking a beat in Pullman when he saw my mother leaving a bowling alley. They were married three months later; this year will be their sixty-fourth anniversary. My brother Nick was all set to join the Navy when Julie crossed paths with him. Six weeks later, the priest is reading the banns and Nick's working at her father's construction company."

"Sounds like shotgun weddings run in your family."

He pointed a finger at her.

"There are no bastards in the Fontana line."

She raised an eyebrow at his blunt declaration.

_No—only detectives who act like one...._

Fontana tucked the accusative digit back into his fist and continued his story.

"At Nick's wedding, I publicly swore I wouldn't fall prey to the Curse; there were too many lovely ladies for me to be faithful to only one. All my relatives laughed and Nick bet me five bucks I'd be married before I turned twenty-one. He was wrong."

Fontana drew in a deep breath and let it out through lips curved in a contented smile.

"But I have met my one and only, Detective Judith Otten of Manhattan SVU, a woman who is accomplished, fluent in Italian, and a good shot. She is everything I could ever want in a wife and helpmate."

Van Buren sneered at her subordinate like the dog she knew him to be.

"This woman know what's in store for her?"

"Not yet. I figured I'd stop by her unit and ease her into the idea—break it to her gently. Wouldn't want to overwhelm her now, would I?"

The glint in his eye finally clued her in. Van Buren settled back against her desk and shook her head as she chuckled.

"You're pulling my leg—right, Fontana?"

He grinned like her youngest boy, a scamp and her favorite.

"The part about love at first sight and my family—that's true. The part about me being the answer to Judith's prayers—well, I sincerely doubt her prayers mention me at all."

"What about you falling in love?"

The joshing humor drained from his expression.

"That part's true and ma'am—I don't know what to do about it."

She bit her lip as she judged his sincerity, the solemn worry in his eyes a sign that he meant what he had said.

_I really shouldn't take pity on him... Lord knows the trouble he'll cause before Otten kicks his ass to the curb... but something in me wants to see Joseph Fontana collared and domesticated...._

Van Buren considered her next words carefully.

"The way to a man's heart is good cooking," she told him. "The way to a woman's heart—"

"—is gifts: flowers, jewelry, fine chocolate," he finished her thought. "I know that."

"But do you know," she asked, "what impresses a detective? You figure that out and you give it to this woman. Treat her like the professional she is and you'll get her attention."

She nodded as though she had handed him the wisdom of the ages.

_I also won't mind seeing him fall flat on his face... we'll see how this plays out...._

265 W. 139th Street  
Residence of Bridget Shanahan  
25 June

A short night's sleep was followed by a morning visit that caught Bridget Shanahan before she left for work. Elliot and John shared the sofa while she faced them from the black overstuffed chair. Unlike the gray pants and oversized sweatshirt she had worn when Stabler and Benson first interviewed her, her work uniform was a bright floral tunic with turquoise pants. A name tag identified her as B. Shanahan from Freedom Home Care, Inc. The tight grip that her right hand held about her left and the way she perched on the edge of the cushion, feet braced to dash for the door in case either of them came at her, warned Stabler of how uncomfortable their presence made her feel.

Munch also had picked up on her uneasiness. He sat back on the sofa, his hands flat against his knees as he avoided staring directly at her.

_Hands in plain sight and his badge prominently displayed… he doesn't look anything like Smith, but he knows we'll get nowhere if Bridget is spooked by a strange male… damn it, Liv—why couldn't you be here? Victims trusts you…._

"Ms Shanahan," Elliot began, "we got your message last night. You said that you want to withdraw your accusation against Raymond Smith?"

Her head bobbed up and down.

"Do you mind telling us what changed your mind?

The corner of John's mouth twitched at his word choice.

_You don't like the way I work, go fix whatever's wrong with you and Fin…._

"I…well," Bridget answered, "I…I don't want to lose my job."

Elliot waited, but she said nothing more. Her gaze darted from him to Munch and back again.

_Anger and fear, the two most common reactions to an attack...she definitely is scared. Sometimes, that fear displaces to something or someone besides the attacker... maybe that's what is happening here...._

When her gaze flicked back to him, Elliot asked, "What makes you think you'll lose your job?"

Her head jerked as she glanced toward the kitchen before answering.

"A manager from HR came yesterday and said it would be hard for me to cover my patients, what with all the time you guys and the attorneys—the D.A. and the criminal ones—would need from me. She said there would be line-ups and depositions and testimony rehearsals and then I'd have to testify at the trial. She said I'd be better off concentrating on me and getting my life back together. My boss told me my counseling is covered, but he didn't say anything about me taking time off. I know you're supposed to talk me into this, but I can't do it. I can't afford to miss work."

Elliot tried a reassuring smile.

"Ms. Shanahan," he said, "we checked; you have almost half a million dollars in the bank. You're not hurting for money. Is your job really so important to you that you'd let your attacker go free?"

Bridget stared gape-mouthed at him.

_That's the same "Well—duh!" stare Elizabeth gives me when I ask about homework...._

"Well, yeah—I need my job. It pays my bills."

"But the money market account?" John asked. "Your investments?"

"Oh, that's for this place and my wedding. Ever since I was little, I dreamed of having a fabulous apartment in Manhattan and a huge fairy-tale wedding on the beach. I figured the only way that would happen was the Lotto so I started buying tickets. Two years ago, one of my instant tickets won. I went right out and got this place then I started planning my dream wedding."

She drew her feet up to sit tailor-style in the chair and released her death grip on her fingers so she could animate her dream with gestures.

"I'll have a dozen bridesmaids in strapless ball gowns with dropped waists—six in jade and six in silver. The gowns by Shante Goldsman design in 100% Silk Dupioni with taffeta sashes, mauve for the silver dresses and silver for the mauve ones. The total for the gowns is $41,000. The groomsmen will wear black tuxedos with cummerbunds—I love the word 'cummerbund'—to match the bridesmaids. The groom will wear pure white with cufflinks in emeralds the color of my eyes. The cufflinks are $8,000."

The fear left her eyes and her hands pointed to waist and wrist as she described each outfit.

"My dress will be an A-line with a sweetheart neckline and a natural waist and sweeping train handmade by Elena Kuryakin. The material is pure white taffeta with white lace, pearl beads, and hand-embroidered tropical flowers and vines along the neckline and edge of the train. It's gonna cost almost $30,000."

Elliot heard a muted gulp from John's throat.

_He must be multiplying by four… I'm on his side—this already costs more than our house did…._

"We'll be married on the beach in St. Lucia. I'll have three hundred guests and a huge banquet under arches of tropical flowers. We'll eat rock lobster and conch chowder, hearts of palm salads and coconut shrimp and we'll drink sangria and rum punch and, after we've eaten, I'll be toasted with French champagne then I'll cut two wedding cakes, a six-tier white one decorated with candied hibiscus flowers for me and a fruitcake for the groom. I got that idea from Emily Post; it's my 'something old.'"

Next to Elliot, Munch began to strangle on suppressed comments. Elliot shot him a stern glance and he gulped back a guffaw.

"It sounds delightful, Ms Shanahan. I didn't know you were engaged."

"Oh, I'm not—not yet, anyway. My plan was to meet him after I moved here—y'know, run into some cute money manager at the deli, start a conversation while we waited on line, forget about work and spend the morning talking, have lunch in the park, and realize by suppertime that we were made for each other…."

Bridget's flood of words halted. Her hands, spread as though reaching for the hands of her dream lover, curled into tight fists as she folded her arms across her chest. Her voice, so confident just before, broke and stammered.

"It didn't work out the way it was supposed…."

Her words became a sob that racked her voice and body. John instinctively leaned forward and extended a hand.

"Bridget, it's all—"

She shrank back in her chair, her knees drawn up, her head ducked behind them. Elliot called her name several times with no better result. He beckoned Munch from the couch.

"I've got the phone number of her friends upstairs. Maybe one of them can come sit with her."

Munch nodded.

"We're obviously not helping matters any—not that either of us can help having the same equipment as the average rapist."

Elliot made the call while Munch wandered around the living area and kitchen. He made a wide arc around the sobbing woman as he scanned shelves, table tops, and counters. He picked up and replaced envelopes, peered at open papers, then used a loose Latex glove to palm a small cardboard rectangle that lay by the microwave before rejoining Elliot as he pocketed his phone.

"Alana Monroe is coming down to stay with Bridget," Elliot said. "If you'll fill her in out in the hall, I'll try one more time."

His efforts earned him a "Go away!" and nothing more. Alana, the one Elliot mentally had tagged 'The Runner', had better luck. When the two detectives left, Bridget and Alana were on the couch, Bridget crying and Alana comforting her friend.

John waited until they were both in the car before commenting on the situation.

"Your ictim-vay is not too ight-bray."

Elliot left the key unturned in the ignition as he stared at the older man.

"John...."

"Well, she isn't. Aside from that fairy-tale entrapment she has planned for some poor schmuck, she fell for a phony. That HR manager can't possibly be from her employer."

"How do you know? It sounds like exactly the thing a corporation would tell its employee."

John let out a long, exasperated sigh. Elliot frowned at the older man.

_Well, it does….granted, neither of us have worked for a corporation, but they're no more caring that the brass is…._

"I've mentioned my uncle Andrew?" John asked.

"The one in Florida? Yeah—you visited him a couple of years ago."

"You should pay more attention; I visit him every year. He's healthy enough for his age, but I feel better knowing someone not associated with his retirement community is checking on him.

"Paranoid much?"

John's sneer served as answer.

"My research into home care companies found that Freedom is the best of a scurvy lot. All their local offices are corporate-owned so anything shady ties right back to the head honchos. If there is a case of malpractice or patient neglect, they can't pretend an independent owner or franchisee is at fault. It makes them slightly more responsible."

"So how do you explain Bridget's story?"

"I don't—yet. Ask me again after I check out this business card."

He held up a small evidence bag that held a beige card with Freedom Home Care's logo.

"It's not like the ones I have from the Tampa office or Corporate—no embossing and the colors are off."

"'Madelyn McClure, HR Manager,'" Elliot read. "You think she's a fake?"

"Makes more sense than a large corporation risking obstruction of justice charges over a simple reshuffling of one employee's schedule. You want to follow up on this?"

Elliot considered it.

We still can hold Sikkens on falsifying his identity and failing to report his residence… that buys us time to prove or disprove this… maybe get Shanahan to reverse her recanting….

"Sure. We'll do Freedom first."

John smiled.

"Spoken like a true revolutionary."

Freedom Home Care, Inc.  
Brooklyn Office  
25 June

The Brooklyn Office was in a modern single-story industrial building overlooking Sheepshead Bay. The receptionist directed Munch to the HR department and Stabler to a cubicle labeled "Lorene McCall, Lead Coordinator." When he reached it, a large woman with hennaed hair and a big, easy smile greeted him warmly from behind her desk.

"You're the detective working Bridget's case," she said as she waved him to a chair. "Bridget called in sick today; she doing all right?"

Elliot noted her family photos, the collection of nurse knickknacks that filled the cubicle, and the genuine concern in the woman's voice and expression.

"As well as you'd expect," he said. "It will take some time—"

"Oh, honey—I know that. We deal with hurting people all the time. I told Bridget that we'll help her get through this. Awful, just awful this had to happen to her. She's so good with the older clients. Lots of the younger aides just don't have patience, but everyone likes Bridget and she likes them."

Elliot made certain his polite smile stayed in place.

_The way Bridget shied from John, it will be a long time before she's working with any older men again...._

"Ms McCall—"

"Call me Lorene; everybody does."

"All right, Lorene. You said that you plan to work with Bridget to get through this. What does that mean?"

Lorene spread her arms wide.

"Whatever it takes—time off for healing, counseling—it's part of our health plan; we cover psychological visits for cause. If she needs time off to work with you and later, when the trial starts, I'll arrange her schedule to fit. It's bad enough Bridget was attacked, but to have one of our patients be the attacker—that makes it our problem."

Elliot kept his polite smile in place.

_Are you helping out a victim, trying to keep a valuable employee, or covering your ass because you and your company assigned her to a rapist?_

"I feel awful about Mr. Smith being one of our clients," Lorene continued. "We had a corporate conference call yesterday to discuss screening procedures. We don't check to see if a prospective client is a sex offender. Legal says that we can't. If we don't take them on as clients, we get sued. If we take them on, our people get hurt—we can't win."

Since Lorene looked like she really did care and because she had been blunt about the problem…

_…and didn't give me some CYA corporate-speak…._

…Elliot broadened his smile from 'polite' to 'empathetic.'

"I understand, Lorene—we work with this dilemma every day. Now, if could you answer a couple of questions?"

Out in the car, he relayed the answers to Munch.

"Mrs. McCall never heard of Madelyn McClure. She said HR wouldn't step in unless Bridget made an insurance claim for counseling or filed a complaint against her employer."

John nodded.

"That matches what I learned. No one named Madelyn McClure works for Freedom Care, either in the corporate office or any of their branches. The business card is a fake. The branch HR manager scanned it and sent it to Corporate; their graphics department said it's not even a good copy."

"So who," Elliot asked as he pulled out of the parking lot, "would want our victim to recant?"

John braced both feet against the floorboards and gripped the seat edge and the arm rest.

"You in a hurry to get somewhere?" he asked.

"Yeah—to get an answer. Any ideas?"

Elliot took the entrance ramp onto the Shore Parkway; John checked over his shoulder for traffic and pressed his right foot against the floorboards as they merged with traffic.

"Sikkens benefits from Bridget recanting, John said. "We lose the rape charge against him unless CSU finds lots of incontrovertible evidence."

"But he's in Rikers," Elliot noted. "He can't fake business cards and recruit phony HR managers from there."

A car cut close to the front fender as it changed lanes before them. Munch flinched and Elliot tried not to smile.

_Everything Fin said about you as a passenger—looks like it's true…._

"It would be difficult," John admitted.

"Call the phone number."

"That's an upstate area code."

"So?"

John dug his phone from his jacket pocket and poked its keys. After five rings, a recorded message announced that Madelyn McClure was unable to answer the phone.

John disconnected without leaving a message then he called Central Dispatch to verify the card's address, 1401 Karmer Road in Albany.

"There's a Freedom Care regional office at that location," he told Elliot. "Someone did their homework—a good address with a working phone number. If we were lousy cops, we might fall for this."

"Yes, but what are we supposed to fall for?"

John pursed his lips and thought for a few seconds.

"Sikkens becomes Smith—he has an excellent but phony ID. A phony HR manager visits Bridget Shanahan—another ID that fooled its intended target. Maybe the two are related…."

"Great," Elliot groused. "A mystery and a conspiracy."

John's snort echoed his annoyance. He opened his mouth to continue griping, but an eighteen-wheeler pulling into the lane next to him prompted another flinch.

"If you'd rather drive," Elliot offered, "I'll pull over."

"It's okay, Elliot," John told him, "I'm just used to Fin's driving. It's slapdash and ill-prepared, but he gets us there. Not that I'm slamming yours, but I hope I don't get the chance to get used to it."

Elliot nodded.

_Amen to that, brother… the sooner things get back to normal, the better…._


	7. Tropical Depression: part two

A/N: I do not speak Farsi. I have verified the phrases used in this chapter with several on-line dictionaries.

_Dorood/Dorood bar to = _Hello/Hello to you.

_Lutfan, Agha-ye Eshan = _Please, Mr. Eshan.

Remember, this is fiction. Nobody in this story is based on a real person.

Tum Yum Sushi  
474 E 14th Street  
25 June

Tum Yum's proprietor, Tommy Yoshida, was not happy about the bomb squad sweeping his place before he opened for lunch. He was not happy about the plainclothes officer who was preventing everyone and everything, including deliveries, from entering the back door. He was even less happy about Lando, NYPD's best explosives detector, positioned outside the front entrance.

"I don't like dogs," Yoshida told Sofarelli. "What if it pees on my front door?"

Couch glanced through the front window at the German Shepherd and his handler. Sergeant Gonzales, in jeans and an oversized hoodie, was leaning against the building while Lando sniffed everyone who walked by.

"It's not going to happen," he told Yoshida. "Lando is very well trained."

The Bomb Squad's presence was the result of an argument between Sofarelli and Otten. Couch had maintained that a middle-aged Afghani was unlikely to be a suicide bomber and that the meeting with Eshan would go just as promised. Judith had been extremely unwilling to put his belief to the test. Usually they would go to their superior for a resolution, but according to the shift admin, Captain Cragen was 'unavailable except in an emergency'.

Howie Brewster decided the matter.

"Couch, if you're wrong, you'll be in too many pieces to take the blame. My advice—call in the bomb squad."

_And so I pissed off Yoshida, cost SVU I don't know how much in inter-departmental charges, and made two uniforms eat lunch in their car down the street. They have a photo of Ahmad Eshan and are supposed to warn Judith via her wire when he shows up... at least I made Judith happy... ._

Couch and Judith were at a four-top in the corner of the room. Couch sat facing the entrance, Judith facing the small sushi prep area with its counter and five occupied stools. Her attention flicked between the back of the restaurant and the list of that day's sushi and sashimi.

_Except Judith doesn't look happy... she looks like we're all about to go "Boom!"_

"Did you ever work a bombing?" Couch asked his partner.

Judith kept her gaze roving the room while she answered.

"No. I accompanied my father to Kibbutz Yagur five years ago. He was working with the University of Haifa on a history series at Studio Yagur, which gave me a reason to visit friends in the area. A suicide bomber took out the Jerusalem-Haifa bus near the kibbutz; eight people were killed, a couple dozen injured. I knew—"

Judith's attention shifted to the front door. She stared at it for a couple of seconds before discreetly raising her left hand to her face.

"Got it, " she said. "Thank you."

To her partner, she whispered, "Eshan just left a cab at the corner. He's wearing a blue shirt open at the throat and gray slacks—nothing that would hide a bomb."

Some of Judith's tension left her as she exhaled slowly. Couch decided against anything resembling an "I told you so."

_I was playing the odds as I see them … Judith computed the odds based on her experience and got a different result… I need to stop assuming I'm the only expert and remember there are other viewpoints, other valid experiences…._

"Good," he told her. "One less thing to worry about."

His concession drew a half-smile from Judith that stayed in place until Ahmad Eshan entered the restaurant. He looked around the room until he spotted the two detectives. At that moment, he tensed and twisted on his feet as though turning to bolt outside.

"_Dorood_," Couch called to him. "We are glad to see you."

The greeting caught Eshan off-guard. For a moment he gasped like a hooked catfish then he walked stiff-legged to their table. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, a sign that he lacked many hours of sleep.

_Eshan doesn't need explosives... he's wound so tight, if I say "Boo", he'll shatter like a dropped glass...._

"_Dorood bar to,_" Eshan replied. He greeted Couch with a hand-shake and Judith with a nod before he took a seat at their table.

"My apologies for my lateness."

Eshan picked up the list of choices and stared at it, avoiding both their gazes.

"This is difficult for me," he said. "To say that I—that my—that…."

"Why don't we order first?" Couch suggested. "You can gather your thoughts and decide how to explain things to us."

Couch quickly ticked off his selection: _nigiri sushi_ and hand rolls. Eshan continued to stare at his list. Couch leaned over and pointed to a section of the list.

"I asked the owner; he doesn't use wine in his cooked sushi so you can safely order anything here."

Eshan let out a brief sigh before checking several boxes.

"Thank you. I chose this restaurant because people I know will not be here. I did not think about eating the food."

Across the table, Judith's raised eyebrow told Couch that she was impressed by his move.

_Yes, I checked for _halal _compliance… alcohol is completely forbidden to Muslims, even in cooking… Eshan may be more open with us if we show we understand his situation…._

Judith chose some vegetarian rolls and fish sashimi. When the server collected their orders, she pointed at her partner.

"He gets the check."

Tommy Yoshida immediately looked happier.

After the server left, both detectives waited while Eshan took a long drink of water then he fidgeted with his napkin and examined his chopsticks. Finally, he turned to Couch.

"There are many things wrong in your country," he said, "your television, your advertising, the way young women look and dress—it is immodest and shameful. This is what I see when I first come here.

"When I am here for more time, I see young women working, learning, playing sports. Their dress is shameful, but they work hard. I wonder about my Asma and my Ghoty and my Ghazal. Maybe Ghoty play on a girls' team. Asma loves books and history; maybe she study with other girls and not at home with her mother.

"My imam would curse me for my thinking, but there are imams here who do not curse these things. I hear their names cursed by my imam, but maybe they are more correct in their thinking. I never think these things in Ghazni. I think these things after I come here, but I do nothing more than think until—"

Eshan paused to scan the restaurant and the view through the front window. His head jerked back to face Couch. Judith shifted in her seat and placed her right hand on the table, inches away from her weapon in its shoulder holster. Sofarelli held his own position, hands folded before him on the table as he leaned slightly toward Eshan, a pose of interested listening that made him appear calm.

"I made a mistake and I must do a certain thing to correct my mistake," Eshan said. "This is a proper thing—a thing I should do without thinking. If I do not do this thing, my family and I will be forced back to Ghazni, where Taleban control the streets. It is very dangerous and my people will not help because of my dishonor."

Eshan stared at the table before him for so long that Judith beckoned for her partner's attention. He made a patting motion with his hand.

_Hold still… be patient… ._

The server came with their food. All three ignored it as the two detectives waited for Eshan to speak.

"I prayed," he finally said, "for strength to do this thing and for help. Then you come to my door. What you said to me, both in my language and in English, tells me you understand. You are police, but you also are educated. The police I know are corrupt and ignorant."

Eshan looked at Judith for the first time since he sat at the table.

"You work with a man. To me, this is wrong, but you are quiet and modest and know your place. I wonder if you are temptation or if you are what I need to keep my Asma safe. I do not want …I do not want…."

His voice broke. His gaze dropped to the seaweed-wrapped rolls on the plate before him as he began to tremble.

"You do not want your daughter to pay the price for your mistake," Judith said.

Eshan raised his head and stared wide-eyed at Otten. Judith sat still, her expression calm and open.

"_Lutfan, Agha-ye Eshan,"_ Couch quickly said. "My partner's words are not said to offend you."

Eshan shook his head then faced Sofarelli. A second, sideways glance at Otten was followed by something muttered in Farsi.

Couch stifled a laugh.

_Yes, it is creepy when a woman reads your mind…._

"I think we both understand what you need," he said to Eshan. "You need to relocate. You need to go where those you offended cannot find you or your family. You need a new identity, money, and a new job ."

Eshan nodded in agreement then asked, "Can you do this?"

Couch glanced at Judith, who pointed at the pocket in which she kept her shield then shook her head.

"No, we can't," said Couch. "The police here do not make people disappear."

Judith pulled her phone from her pocket.

"I'll call our captain and ask about help for Mr. Eshan. Could I have one of your business cards?"

Couch fished a card from his shield case. Judith took it and left through the front door of the restaurant. She spoke briefly to Sgt. Gonzales and patted Lando. The two walked away while she made her call.

'_Call our captain'… nice cover for calling Munira Nasrallah to check on the plan to hide Asma and see if it can accommodate her entire family… smart move to use my card… it wouldn't be good for Eshan to be found with a woman's name and phone number—and that fact has to rub Judith the wrong way…._

Eshan interrupted his thoughts.

"Your partner—she is married. Why does her husband permit her to work as police?"

"Detective Otten's husband was a police captain," Couch told him. "Many member of her family are NYPD."

Eshan nodded.

"Maybe my Ghazal would like such a job. She is very logical for a female."

He then pointed at the plate before him.

"What is this? Rice I know, but the black wrapping and the green—they are…?"

The two men spent the next ten minutes discussing the intricacies of Japanese food. Couch was demonstrating chopstick techniques when Judith resumed her seat at their table. She returned the business card to Couch with a phone number and name printed on the blank side.

"The phone number belongs to Imam Talal Rahmani of the Manhattan Avenue Islamic Center. He is willing to help Mr. Eshan and his family. Imam Rahmani asks that he call today after sunset prayers."

Couch passed the card on to Eshan as he repeated the information in Farsi. Eshan held it so firmly that it creased in his grasp.

"Thank you," he said. "_Khodafez."_

Eshan bolted from his chair and was out the door before Couch could stop him. Through the window, he saw Eshan check both left and right before sliding the card into his shirt pocket. He then hailed a passing cab.

Judith turned away from her observation of Eshan to her partner.

"_Khodafez?"_

"It means 'Good-bye,'" Couch answered, "and that was intense."

"Yes, it was. Think he truly is becoming enlightened?"

Couch worked his shoulders to release the tension built up from trying to appear unconcerned through the conversation. Across from him, Judith slumped back in her chair. He heard her spine crackle as she rolled her head in search of the same muscle relief.

"I don't know," he said. "Eshan is trying to handle the dissonance from his beliefs rubbing against what he's experienced here. If it wasn't for the threat to his daughter, he would still be thinking, not acting."

Judith had unwrapped her chopsticks while Couch spoke. He followed suit.

"I guess we'll find out if he calls Rahmani," he continued. "Did you arrange to follow up on this?"

Judith nodded as she picked up a salmon _sashimi_..

"The imam will call me after Eshan calls or if he doesn't call tonight. He said that Munira was planning to contact Asma tomorrow afternoon about leaving her family; we called just in time to get those plans changed."

Couch dipped a hand roll in _shoyu._

"I didn't reach Captain Cragen," she then said. "Ted said he is due back by shift change. We'll have to fill him in then."

"Great," Couch groused as the costs he had approved totaled in his head. "I don't know about you, but the Dykeman case is starting to look like fun compared to this."

His partner grinned at him over a veggie roll.

"Could be worse—at least Cragen's not reassembling your body parts so he can slap you with desk duty."

Empire Tailors  
95 Mulberry Street  
25 June

Don Cragen was having a great day. First, he wasn't at the precinct, which made him feel like a school kid playing hooky. Second, he was spending his morning doing something he had never done before.

"Now, do you like the feel of this tropical worsted? We have it in light gray...."

The tailor shop held the scent of wood and plaster, old but well-maintained. Lanolin and a crisp hint of cotton, the tickle of chalk as the fitter marked his lines—it all smelled very expensive.

Don held the fabric between his fingers and copied the motions of the tailor's hand. Overhead, long rows of full-spectrum lights shone on the fabric, picking out the fine white lines woven into the pale gray wool.

"I like this better than that linen and silk you just showed me."

The tailor made a note.

"A light gray chalkstripe, a mid gray herringbone, two mid blue plain weave, and a mid gray birdseye with blue—all in tropical worsted with a hard finish. Very good, sir."

Cragen agreed with a nod and the tailor began to discuss shirting materials and colors. Don let himself be guided by the tailor's expertise, vetoing only the suggestion of anything even remotely verging on pink.

_I'm leaving that color to Fontana... I need to look like a leader, not a rich playboy…._

He had been flirting with the idea of one last try at promotion since Andrew Beale, SVU's Bureau Chief, mentioned it ten days earlier. Andrew not only thought it was possible, he was actively stumping for Cragen: arranging lunches with brass who could influence the promotion board, suggesting strategies for attracting the right sort of attention, backing Don's decision to let himself be drafted into the negotiation team working on the long-overdue police pay contract....

_That decision alone proves I'm nuts, but the glory that goes to the guys who bring in an acceptable contract is worth twice the time and effort...._

...and recommending his own tailor to Don.

"Especially for people like you and me," Beale had told him over a recent dinner together, "clothes do make the man. That's exactly what you need right now—to attract attention to you and your abundant abilities and, once you have that attention, to look like you deserve to keep it."

After the fabric swatches were put away and Cragen had approved his order, he let himself consider what Beale had talked him into.

_Thirteen hundred per suit... three hundred per shirt... plus new suspenders... I'm gonna have to pay this bill blindfolded so I don't scare myself writing the check amount… but hey—it's not like I have anything else to spend it on...._

His next stop proved that was not true. The NYPD impound yard on Navy Street in Brooklyn held an vehicle that, if purchased, would make his new clothes seem like a bag of penny candy.

"Yeah, we brought it in on a trailer end of last week. Mack wanted to drive it, but I knew he'd go by way of Poughkeepsie."

The car in question was a 1962 Jaguar XKE SI 3.8 Convertible, classic maroon with biscuit leather interior and chrome wire wheels. The coupe was a thoroughbred parked among mongrels. Cragen admired the car in the company of Sgt. John Burkem, a short, wiry man who admitted he spent most of the morning drooling on it.

"Belonged to some IAB rat who got caught with his paw in the cookie jar—the one killed in that Bronx shootout. The department wants every penny he stole back again so they confiscated all his toys. Wouldn't mind bidding on this one myself."

Don rested his left arm on the cloth top while he examined the interior then he popped the bonnet to admire the polished aluminum cam covers and manifolds.

"It's nice—really nice. When's the auction?"

"July 10th. It could have gone Saturday, but the powers that be want a chance to advertise this one. It's a bit better than the beaters we usually impound."

Burkem pointed at Cragen's wrist cast.

"Summer's the worst time to break something. It sweats; it itches; it smells. I broke my collarbone playing touch football at a family picnic last July. Like to drive me nuts."

The power of suggestion made Don scratch under the edge of his cast.

"I hear you."

A phone rang in the impound office. Burkem patted the Jag.

"She'll go for at least $60 thou and they'll want cash—just in case you're thinking of blowing your retirement funds on her."

Burkem headed for the office while Cragen inspected the car.

_Not exactly my retirement funds… more like Marge's insurance money—what I didn't use to pay off the house has been earning interest for the past ten years… about time I spent it on something fun…._

He moved to the Jag's left fender. This gave him a clear view of the driver's seat. If he squinted a little, he could picture the 'IAB rat' seated behind the wheel.

_Not entirely for fun… if I buy this, I'll own Greg Lau's prized possession… I'll be sitting in his driver's seat… might as well call this what it is—revenge pure and simple… he hurt me; I take his baby for my own…._

"After all," he said aloud. "I already own a proper English driver's cap."

After checking out the XKE, Cragen grabbed a slice and coffee then drove to the precinct house. Outside the main entrance, a line of chain-link fencing was keeping several dozen people clear of the sidewalk. Some were chanting something rhythmic but indistinct while others shouted at any uniforms who passed their location. They all held signs.

_'Companion Animals Deserve Dignity'… 'Speciesism Sucks'… 'Animals aren't Trash'… 'Would You Put Your Family in Garbage Bags?'… damn—this is exactly what I was afraid of when I saw that report last night…._

He entered through the back way. In his office, Brewster filled him in on the morning's happenings. Cragen sighed over Couch's calling in the bomb squad as he shrugged into his uniform jacket, easing the left sleeve over his cast.

"The Chief will ream me about expenses next time I see him, but we can't be too careful nowadays. I'll tell Sofarelli he made the right decision. Anything else?"

"Aside from the protestors outside—not a thing," he answered. "They from that dead pet case Munch and Tutuola caught?

"Yeah," Cragen said, "Tammy said Cyndy Sierens from NY8 called last night for comments. I guess the ratings boost from her last righteous rampage is gone and she needs a new cause. Anything else?"

"No. You available if we need you?"

Cragen shook his head.

"Still emergencies only. I'm meeting with community leaders at St. Michael's—a command performance from Councilman Baker. Seems he's making child and elderly safety his new crusade."

"And you've been drafted into his army? Okay, then—we'll hold the fort until you get back for the shift meeting."

Council Room  
The Church of Saint Michael  
W. 34th Street  
25 June

The meeting had been a productive one—surprising when Cragen considered the scattergun approach that usually typified Councilman Baker's problem-solving. That the group of community and church leaders had stayed on-topic was due to the guidance of Tullia Horne, the councilman's new aide.

_She worked us like a sheepdog works a herd, heading off tangents, cutting off side discussions, keeping us focused on the problems and their solutions… wish I could borrow her for some of my meetings…_

The mental of image of Horne admonishing Deputy Commissioner Balzano to "stop sneering and keep his mind on the topic before this group" entertained him while Baker made his interminable closing remarks.

_I got off easy… a promise to supply speakers for neighborhood meetings—Judith will be good for the MahJong and Altar Guild groups; I'll have to get her the materials… and to see about self-defense classes—I'll check with Couch and Chloe on that…._

Afterwards, he was chatting with Father Byrne when Horne called his name. Cragen turned to find her with her hand outstretched. Thick brown hair shot with gray fell from a center part to her ear lobes and appeared to be held back from her face by force of will alone. Don observed her clear brown eyes, strong straight nose, light makeup, only a gold crucifix for jewelry—no rings—a cream linen suit with a raspberry blouse and a Blackberry clipped to her waist. She was a head shorter than he, but she carried herself with authority and moved with an athlete's grace.

"Thank you for all you did today," she said. "You are a fountain of helpfulness."

He chuckled as he took her hand.

"That is the first time anyone called me that."

"Well, it's true. I'm looking forward to working with you."

She held his gaze for a moment and gave his hand a squeeze before moving on to thank another attendee. Cragen watched as she walked away from him.

_Nice… really nice…._

A slap on the left shoulder jarred his thoughts and his body. He spun around, more from the blow than voluntary action, to face John Baker, representing Council District 3.

_Paint him green and he'd be the Incredible Hulk—same strength, same personality, same low I.Q... if he hadn't married a Lamerly niece, he'd be working a container ship... now, he's slated for big things...._

"She's a Godsend, that one," Baker commented, his thumb pointed at Horne. "Don't know how I got by before she joined my staff."

"She replaced—who was it? Alberta Reynolds?"

"Yep. Bertie retired to Alabama in February. Tony Balzano pointed Tullia my way—I owe him big time for that."

Cragen's gaze switched back to where Horne was chatting with the after-school program director from the Educational Alliance.

_Good-looking single woman… patronage job arranged by the First Deputy Commissioner… I've heard this story before… what she sees in that scumwad…._

He wiped his right hand against his pants leg.

"I know what you're thinking," Baker told him, "but it's not like that. Balzano's wife would Bobbett him with a rusty can lid if he had something on the side. Fact is—Tullia is Tony's sister. When she moved back from Buffalo, she needed a job and I needed an aide. Timing, no?"

He clapped Cragen on the shoulder again and went back to working the room. Don cast another sideways glance at Tullia Horne before heading out to his car. While Charlie drove him back to the station house, he considered her comments, her smile, the feel of her hand in his, and her relatives.

_This doesn't add up... if she got the job from her brother, then she's in his hip pocket ... no way she'd be interested in me... unless she's a calvitophiliac and turned on by my lack of hair... yeah, right... still, she is a fine-looking woman who seems very interested in me… and her brother thinks I'm a sack of shit...._

The sudden anger that Balzano's opinion stirred in him decided the matter.

_Tullia in the passenger seat of my Jaguar... wind blowing through her hair, my arm around her shoulders... I'll drive past Balzano and yell 'Eat your heart out, you bastard'... damn, that will feel good...._


	8. Tropical Depression: part three

Vicinity of the Sixteenth Precinct Station House  
25 June

Two blocks away from the station house, Benson spotted Jay Kingman, a detective in the Robbery unit, unlocking his car. She hit the passenger window button and called out to him.

"Hey, Benson," he called back. "You need my space?"

She smiled and nodded.

"It's yours, but I should warn you—things are wild here today."

"What's up?"

"Animal rights nuts. They started before seven this morning; Traffic Control had the barriers up by eight. Probably a couple hundred of them now, all upset about dead pets."

His words left Olivia curious. After parking, she went to the main entrance to see the scene for herself. The Sixteenth Precinct was housed in a nine-story Neo-Georgian or maybe Art Deco building—architecture was not Olivia's strong suit; she only knew it was a gray stone building with carved scrollwork over its arched windows. In front of the building, a line of aluminum barricades routed traffic away from the precinct house. A dozen cops wearing helmets, jackets, and sheathed batons guarded the entrance. Opposite them, tall linked sections of hurricane fencing lined the median strip, where a mass of people—to Benson's practiced eye, at least three hundred—chanted and waved placards.

"Lions and tigers and pets aren't trash! Lions and tigers and pets aren't trash! Lions and tigers and pets...."

_Oh, my... someone needs a better chant...._

Behind the line of riot police, several uniforms and detectives were gathered by the 9/11 banner to smoke, an act that drew catcalls from the protesters. Olivia recognized two of them, Stafford and Kilcullen of the precinct's ESU team, and walked over to them.

"Kyle, Jim—what's with the deployment here?"

"We had drive-byes throwing bags of garbage this morning," Kyle answered. "Few minutes later, a couple dozen of 'em surrounded Nick's hot dog stand and shouted vegan slogans at him until he closed up and left. Did me out of my lunch-time brat."

"They were throwing stuffed animals," Kilcullen added. "Inspector Renault was pelted with dogs when he arrived and one of your guys—Munch, I think—caught a stuffed parrot with his face."

Olivia winced.

Poor John… that bruise of his just faded….

Olivia thanked the two men then headed to the SVU squad room. It was ten minutes before shift start and everyone but Fin was present. Cragen, in uniform, stood by his office door with Brewster, Otten, and Sofarelli. The detectives of Brewster's shift were at their desks getting ready to leave. Stabler was sitting on the corner of Munch's desk watching John toss a green plush parrot into the air.

"Those cretins think I mistreat animals," John was saying. "I should have bitten the head off this parrot for them."

"My partner, Ozzy Osbourne." Elliot replied. "You've got the glasses—"

"Yes, but I also have my faculties. Ozzy lost his long ago."

He tossed the parrot up and caught it again.

"This was used to assault a police officer. I should bag it as evidence."

Elliot slid from John's desk.

"I'll get you a trash bag."

Both men laughed. Olivia watched John place the parrot next to his computer monitor before she turned to her locker.

_Joking like long-time partners, which is what Elliot called John… didn't take him long to switch loyalties… fine with me…._

Fin joined her at the lockers as she stashed her purse.

"It's a mess out front," he said.

"I saw. John took a parrot in the face."

Fin jerked around to look at Munch then he quickly turned back to Olivia.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. You good to visit the crime scene first thing?"

Olivia nodded just as Cragen's "People, let's get started" called for their attention. Both shifts moved toward the captain's position outside his office door. Fin joined Judith and Couch by the copier machine. Olivia perched on the corner of her desk facing Cragen. Stabler, who now was standing by Cragen, tried to catch her attention, but she looked instead at Otten's desk, against which Munch was leaning. John was glaring at his partner as though Fin's location was a personal insult.

_Yesterday, John was heart-broken over Fin not working with him... today, he's angry... I've never seen those two act like this... it just isn't like—give it up, Stabler. I'm not looking at you even if you wave with both hands... you had your chance...._

Howie Brewster began the meeting with a rape reported early that morning in Soho. Olivia noted Couch's sigh of relief at the location. He then reported that the Miles Motor Lodge on Long Island was the site of the "Boys and Girls Gone Wild" on-line porn; the paint-by-number room was registered to Hamilcar Burger, of Newburgh, N.Y., who paid by the month.

"Sue and Jason spent today with Hicksville P.D.," Howie told them, "identifying and questioning the kids involved. Since the porn was taped there, they will decide who and what to charge. We get the credit for them and Burger, but the Nassau County D.A. gets to try them."

"I'm sure Casey will be heart-broken," Cragen commented. "DPCI is planning a press conference as soon as Burger is in custody. They'll call you with the when and where."

Elliot then ran through the status of the cases belonging to his shift, ending with the Shanahan case. He explained about the fake HR rep, the phony business card, and the falsified identification that enabled Albert P. Sikkens to become Raymond Wayne Smith and allowed him to avoid registering as a sex offender when he moved to Staten Island.

"John thinks two phonies are too many for one case," Elliot told the group. "We plan to hold Sikkens on the ID-related charges and then track down Madelyn McClure. Once we figure out why she wanted Bridget to recant, we'll go from there."

The hoots and jibes that first greeted Munch's suspicions quieted as Elliot laid out their plan. Cragen blessed it with a curt nod then turned to the assembled detectives.

"You may have noticed," he said, "the protesters out front."

A wave of catcalls greeted his understatement.

"Munch definitely noticed them."

"Got a dead parrot in the face."

"It wasn't dead; it was only resting."

"Sure he wasn't pining for the fjords?"

"Maybe he was pining for a kiss from Munch."

"That's enough," Cragen said with enough force to halt the laughter. "Word from One P.P. is to ignore the protesters. Use the back entrance—especially John and Fin. Cyndy Sierens used your photos in her noon report."

John muttered something about the price of fame; Fin settled for a snarl as Cragen brought the meeting to a close. The assembled detectives scattered as Fin and Olivia followed Cragen into his office.

The captain hung his uniform jacket on a hanger before acknowledging them. His tight, social smile held a small measure of resentment.

_He wants out of that uniform more than he wants to talk to us… wonder if he'd consider changing in front of me if I weren't female… on second thought, no way… one shirt button undone is as far as he ever unbends…._

Olivia leaned against the door to the squad room. Fin stood directly in front of Cragen's desk.

"You're heading back to the Nielson apartment?" Cragen asked.

"Yeah. Liv hasn't seen it yet."

"Forensics get anything off the weapon?"

Fin shook his head.

"No prints. No registration. No way to tie it to Nielson or Houslet."

The growl underlying Fin's words told Olivia how unhappy he was about those facts.

_Only three ways to tie a shooter to a weapon... ownership, prints and residue from the powder blowback... but powder residue is fragile—only lasts about six hours or until the shooter washes up... Nielson was scrubbed for surgery and Houslet didn't hit our radar until the day after the shootings..._

"No history on the weapon?" Cragen asked.

"It was reported stolen in Bradenton, Florida in September, 2002—nothing since then."

"You have a feel for whether it's Nielson or Houslet?"

Fin's upper lip curled so tightly that his nose twitched.

"Nielson seems genuine, but he's got the best motive—Houslet had tracked them down; they were trapped with no way out. On the other hand, Houslet hated his ex and Nielson—maybe enough to kill his son."

"The nudist thing bothers me," Olivia said. "What if Houslet is some sort of prude? If he thought running around naked had tainted his son…."

"…killing him might be preferable to taking him back home?" Cragen finished her sentence. "Could be—we've seen harsh reactions to unusual lifestyles. You check out Houslet?"

"Yeah," said Fin. "Didn't remarry after the divorce. Runs a successful pool cleaning business in Cedar Park, Texas—that's near Austin. His wife met Nielson at the local Y; her son was on the swim team there and Nielson worked the front desk. When the custody fight went Houslet's way, the ex and Nielson took off with the kid."

Olivia said, "Houslet told Fin he was working with local authorities to get Timmy back."

"That true?"

"He was in contact with ACS," Fin answered, "and with an attorney here who handles custody cases."

"What he say about his trip to the hospital two nights ago?"

"Haven't asked him yet. I was waiting on news about the murder weapon."

Cragen left Fin's admission unanswered. To Olivia, the silence conveyed his displeasure.

_He thinks Fin got sloppy... he's going to let him twist for a few seconds just to drive that point home..._

Fin held the captain's gaze as he nodded once, a sign that he accepted the implied criticism.

Cragen finally said, "Skip the crime scene tour and check out his flights; see if he arrived earlier than we think he did. Talk to the attorney, ACS—do whatever it takes to eliminate Houslet as a suspect. We hand Novak a case with a perfectly good alternative suspect and she'll throw it right back in our faces."

Cragen picked up a stack of phone message slips and began to sort them. Fin caught Olivia's attention and they left. Fin veered for the coffee pot; Olivia made a wide turn around Couch's desk and joined him there.

"That's not like him," she said, her voice pitched so only Fin could heard. "Don doesn't dish out the silent treatment until we've really blown it."

Fin stared at the box of tea bags as he said, "I should have cleared Houslet before this. Should have got you out to the crime scene yesterday. I'm acting like a rookie, not the primary."

"Fin—"

_If he were Elliot, I'd give him a friendly poke and tell him nobody's perfect, but Fins hates being touched...._

"What's the ACS caseworker's name?" she asked, hoping the softness of her voice would convey the same message. "I'll call her while you talk to the attorney."

Olivia grabbed a cup of coffee while Fin copied the name and number on a scrap of paper. Around her flowed the usual bustle of the unit. Judith and Couch were at their desks discussing the stone wall that was their Dykeman Rapist case. Tammy was standing behind her partner's chair; their laughter at some shared joke briefly drown out the nearer case discussion.

Elliot's and John's chairs were empty. Olivia spotted the two of them in Interview One, John on his cell phone, Elliot holding up a sheet of paper and comparing it to what appeared to be a business card.

_Good... I don't have to ignore his 'Me, me, look at me!' attention-seeking while I work my case...._

Her phone call to the Administration for Children's Services connected with Deona Johnson. She confirmed that Rick Houslet had contacted her about a custody issue with his son and that she was awaiting the proper paperwork to follow up on the matter. When told the matter was now moot, she expressed the minimal concern possible and thanked Benson for the information.

"Houslet's covered with ACS," she called to Fin at his desk.

"Same with Samuel P. Stephanos, Attorney-at-Law," Fin replied. "Houslet called him about getting his custody orders enforced. He told Houslet it would take a few days to get a warrant to serve on the Nielsons then Family Court would transfer the boy back to Houslet. According to Stephanos, there shouldn't have been any problems."

"Then there is no reason to suspect him," Olivia replied. "Checking those flights will be a waste of time."

Fin shrugged as he handed her a manila folder.

"Cap'n said it needs doing. I'll handle it; you look over the crime scene photos and diagrams."

Olivia leaned back in her chair. She had flipped through the data the night before. This time, she examined each for evidence that Dan Nielson intended to kill himself.

_About 15% of suicides shoot themselves in the chest, so it's not unreasonable for Nielson to use that method... no note, but only one in three suicides leave a note, so not finding one doesn't rule it out... maybe he thought their dead bodies would be enough of a message...._

One photo was of the murder scene taken from the apartment's hall. It showed both bodies and a front view of the chair in which Nielson was sitting when found by paramedics. Olivia gave the photo a thorough examination.

_So he shot Susan and Timothy, then his pets, and then he sat down across from his family and tried to kill himself... he couldn't take the sight of the gun pointing at his face, so he aimed at his chest and pulled the trigger... weapon found near his right hand… that all fits together...._

Stabler stopped at his desk and began to rummage through the stack of paper by his keyboard. Olivia kept her attention on the photo before her, refusing to look up even after the paper rustling grew so loud it could not be accidental.

From behind her came a similar paper shuffle. A glance over her shoulder showed John pulling the same stunt with Fin, who didn't deign to notice.

"Liv?" John called to her. "We're going out. Want anything"

She swung around to face John.

"No, I'm fine. Thanks for offering."

"My pleasure," he replied, his tight-lipped smile and the glare he aimed at Fin negating the politeness of his words. He strode out the door followed by Elliot.

_Good... that stereo paper-shuffling was getting to me... but not Fin—he didn't move a muscle... it's like he's can't hear or see John... everything's compartmentalized with Fin: work in one box, his son in another, his ex, his home life, whatever else he has—all in separate boxes, none of which seem to interconnect.... now John has been put in a box and locked in tight..._

"Damn, we got a mess."

She spun back around to see Fin writing in his notepad.

"I asked for any flight info for Houslet from Texas during the past week and I got one trip for Rick Houslet on the 22nd —"

"When he came up to claim his son's body," she noted.

"—and another two days before that for R. L. Houslet. Same flight number from the same departure city to the same destination—JFK. The return for that trip was the 22nd, same day Rick Houslet arrived."

Olivia took a few seconds to think through the new info, using a finger and the folder to trace the flight routings.

"You think Houslet came up on the earlier flight, shot his son, ex-wife, and her boyfriend then had someone else impersonate him on the second trip?"

Fin's sour grimace answered her question.

"If he met the guy and traded tickets, we could search him and never learn he arrived early."

He poked his pen at his notes.

"Want more? Two weeks ago, Houslet flew to Tampa, Florida for a business convention. Guess what's near Tampa?"

Olivia fished the ballistics report from the folder and held it up by its corner.

"Bradenton, last known home of the murder weapon?"

"Got it. Let's go tell Cap'n—see if we can get a warrant with this."

At the other end of the squad room, Detective Joe Fontana had just arrived and was making himself at home on Fred Tierney's desk. He checked the shine on his Gucci loafers, shrugged to settle his suit coat on his shoulders, and folded his hands on his thigh so that the light from Tammy's desk lamp caught the sapphires in his cufflinks.

"I don't suppose you heard that Ed and I made an arrest in the Bewler hit-and-run?" he asked, his voice loud enough to attract the ears of everyone in the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Judith and her partner turning their attention toward him.

_Not many women look great in taupe, but she certainly does...._

Tammy planted her elbows on her desk. She framed her face with her hands and gazed up at Fontana with an overly worshipful smile.

"No, Detective, we haven't. Tell us about it."

Fontana suppressed a shudder.

_Not even if Judith didn't exist...._

"This afternoon, we arrested Daniel Blaine, father of Raisa Samms-Blaine."

Tammy's faux-worship switched to disbelief. The stunned silence from her partner mirrored her reaction.

"But," she protested, "they're the only ones who didn't call and bitch about us."

Fontana smiled his "Listen carefully and you might learn something" smirk.

"Mrs. Samms may have seemed compliant, but she really was complicit with her husband. Mr. Blaine had his assistant rent a van—ostensibly so she could transport some displays and tchotchkes to a trade show in Albany. After she returned, Blaine used the rental to run over Bewler. He then returned it with a story about his assistant hitting a deer on I-87. We had the van checked; it had Bewler's DNA and some of his shirt snagged in the undercarriage. So Ted Bewler, who is undoubtedly rotting in Hell for his perversions, can now rot in peace."

He slid from Tierney's desk and shook out one pants leg that failed to break correctly over his loafer.

"I thank you for helping with this. You made the job a lot easier."

Fred waved off his gratitude.

"No problem, Fontana. Next time you need to dump your shitwork on someone, you call SVU and ask for Otten and Sofarelli. They're the newbies."

Fontana beamed at him.

"I might just do that. Later."

He turned in the hope of catching Judith listening to his triumph. What he saw was the back of her head. Across the desk, her partner gestured at a map on his monitor. Fontana stepped behind Otten and peered at the map.

_Inwood... not the best of neighborhoods... wonder what they're working...._

A bit of eavesdropping told him that they were beating their heads against a serial rape case.

_No useful evidence... no help from Sofarelli's snitches... no leads.... Van Buren said to find out what Judith needs as a detective, but I don't carry leads around in my pocket and planting evidence is a rotten way to close—hold on a minute...._

He sidestepped until he was in Judith's view then waited for her to acknowledge him.

_God, she's lovely… I can see her on my balcony in the moonlight wearing something flowing… pale blue—lighter than her eyes…._

"Detective?"

Her voice broke the fantasy, bringing Fontana back to where a slightly annoyed Judith was staring up at him.

"My apologies," he said, "but I was shamelessly eavesdropping and…."

Fontana began to lower his rump onto her desk. Judith frowned and he quickly shifted the motion to a "sit" in her side chair.

"When I moved here from Chicago," he said, "our sergeant at Bronx Homicide introduced me to some of his confidential informants. He said I'd be useless on the street until I knew what was happening—an opinion I disagreed with even though I happily accepted his offer.

"Now, you—"

He pointed at Judith.

"—just transferred from Brooklyn. That's not quite Chicago, but it's far enough that your snitches are less than helpful. What say I introduce a few of mine to you? You can size them up, see if they'll be of use. Sound good?"

Her pursed lips showed she was considering his offer.

_Got it in one… I owe the Lieutenant for this…._

"That's a generous offer, Detective. When would be convenient for you?"

He beamed at her while he stifled the urge to grab her hand and shout, 'Now!'

"Tonight after shift? All my good ones work nights."

Judith glanced at her partner.

"If nothing breaks with our rapist," she told him. "Shall I meet you at the Two-Seven?"

_That ruins my plan to impress her with my Benz…._

Fontana covered his disappointment by handing her his business card.

"This has my cell number. If something comes up, let me know and we'll arrange another time soon."

Her fingers brushed his as she took the card. His smile widened.

_I could sit here all day and watch her look at my card… put it in her pocket… smile at me in gratitude… stare at me like she's wondering why I'm still here…._

That last one shattered Fontana's reverie. He stood up, resisting his urge to take her hand and kiss it good-bye.

"I'd better get back to it," he said. "After shift, tonight."

Once Fontana was gone, Couch, Fred, and Tammy turned their attention to the recipient of his generous offer.

"That was creepy," Tammy said. "He looked like the Big Bad Wolf about to gobble down Grandma."

Judith's flat glare set the younger woman in her place.

"Only an idiot," she told Tammy, "refuses the offer of a good snitch—and watch the Grandma cracks or I'll sic my grandkids on you."

"Anything but that," Fred replied. "Still, there's something sleazy about Fontana—too much money, too much flash."

Tammy nodded her agreement.

"Keller tells me he drives a Mercedes SL500. That costs what—seventy, eighty thousand?"

"Try one hundred thousand," her partner corrected. "I doubt he settled for the basic model."

The ring of Tierney's desk phone diverted his and Tammy's attention. Judith turned back to find Couch examining her with raised eyebrows.

"Not you, too," she griped.

"Yeah, me too. What with everything you've been dealing with recently, maybe you should get with Tucker and see what he knows about Fontana."

Judith picked up her phone and called her old squad. Couch listened to her end of the conversation, which consisted of her asking Ed Tucker if IAB had ever investigated Joseph Fontana followed by a series of 'Oh's. Finally, she closed her phone.

"According to Ed, IAB gets more calls about Fontana than any other detective."

"Wonder why?"

"Ha," Judith retorted. "Ed said that Fontana was checked out before he joined Bronx Homicide back in 1993. He's certain that Fontana and the money are legit, but he doesn't know where it comes from."

Couch leaned back and considered that bit of info.

"Can't say I'd mind a new source or two. Mine aren't giving me shit and that's exactly what will hit the fan if we don't catch this guy soon."

Lounge above the SVU squad room  
25 June

Three salads, three iced teas, Olivia, Tammy, and Judith occupied the lunch table. Cragen had okayed getting a warrant for Rick Houslet so Olivia kept checking Fin's desk for signs that Casey had it in hand. Judith also was checking on her partner. Couch had informed her just as their food arrived that sunset prayers would finish soon and the call from Imam Talal Rahmani could come in the next hour.

Between times, the women talked.

"You two complain about the odds being good, but the goods being odd," Judith said. "Wait until you're over fifty."

Olivia eyed the older woman over her tea.

"You're dating?"

"No," Judith replied. "My sister-in-law tells me her war stories. According to Connie, at our age, the odds are bad and the goods are, too."

Olivia and Tammy both laughed.

"You're not giving us much hope," Olivia told her.

Judith set aside a cucumber slice then speared a tomato wedge.

"Here's what it's like for her: Connie was at a restaurant for a evening of speed dates and a man caught her eye. Something about him seemed more assured, more intelligent, more interesting than the other men there. As the evening progressed, she kept watching for him, all her fingers crossed that she would get to meet him.

"Finally, he sat down across from her, grinned, and introduced himself as a music critic. He knew his stuff, but he also was—and I quote—'a pompous bore who used a wall of big words to hide his desperation.' The shame of it is that he was the best of the lot that night; Connie was very disappointed."

"Your sister-in-law sounds awfully impressionable for a Special Frauds sergeant," Olivia said.

"Delusions runs in my family. I have a granddaughter who is convinced this unit has a pet giraffe."

Olivia's plastic fork paused on its path from salad to mouth.

"What? Why?"

"Don't ask me," Judith said with a shrug. "For the last couple of weeks, Cara has been worried about Mr. Giraffe—is he getting enough leaves and do we keep his favorite beer in the fridge and so on. I play along, but I mean... a giraffe?"

Tammy added more dressing to her salad as she laughed.

"I had a hippo named Matilda that lived in my bathroom," she told them. "Only I could see her; she hid behind the toilet whenever anyone else came in. My brother threatened to pee on her and I knocked his front teeth out with the toilet brush."

"Yuck. Ever tell Fred that story?" Olivia asked.

"He already knows I'm dangerous when teased. You ever have an imaginary playmate?"

Olivia's wry grin answered that question, but she made both women wait through a long sip of tea before she explained.

"I had an invisible monkey named Fuzzball," she told them, "and he went everywhere I went—he ate with me, took naps with me, went to preschool with me. One day, my mother took me to campus so she could catch up on her grading and of course Fuzzball went with us. I warned her department chairman that he'd better hold on to his toupee because Fuzzball would steal it. My mother got embarrassed because Dr. Grant thought no one knew his hair was fake."

"Out of the mouths of babes," Judith said, "comes true wisdom."

"Hey, Liv," Fin shouted from downstairs, "Novak's got our warrant."

Olivia looked at her half-finished salad.

"I'll get that to the fridge for you," Tammy offered. "Duty calls and all that…."

"More like duty always calls me away from dinner," Olivia groused as she headed for the stairs.


	9. Tropical Depression: part four

A/N: "Section 26: Every person who shall, by his act or neglect, maliciously kill, maim, wound, injure, torture or cruelly beat any horse, mule, ox, cattle, sheep, or any other animal belonging to himself or another, shall, upon conviction, be adjudged guilty of a misdemeanor." (First state law instituted to protect animals; State of New York, 1866)

Current law: "§ 361. Interference with or injury to certain domestic animals. A person who wilfully or unjustifiably interferes with, injures, destroys or tampers with or who willfully sets on foot, instigates, engages in orin any way furthers any act by which any horse, mule, dog or any other domestic animal used for the purposes of racing, breeding or competitive exhibition of skill, breed or stamina, is interfered with, injured, destroyed or tampered with, or any act tending to produce such interference, injury, destruction or tampering, whether such horse,mule, dog or other domestic animal be the property of himself or another, is guilty of a felony."

For the purposes of this story, the above are the only vNew York State laws. (Yes, I research these stories)

The line beginning "… chocolate-chomping" is a direct Munch quote from a Homicide:LOTS episode.

Outside Interview Room #2  
25 June

Rick Houslet had been sleeping through a cable news show when they pounded on his hotel door. Tutuola and Benson had treated him politely, but they had not given him a chance to freshen up. He wandered inside the small room in a wrinkled white t-shirt and jeans, examining the heavy wooden table, the blank pad of paper and two pens laying on it, the three metal chairs, the window with its heavy mesh screen, and the shabby green walls; he also checked his watch frequently.

On the outside of the security glass, Olivia matched that last motion.

"Think he's stewed long enough?" she asked.

Fin raised his head from the papers in the folder he held. His gaze followed Houslet as he paced.

"I want him as pissed as I am."

Judith joined them at the window.

"I'm ready whenever you are. Think he'll give it up easily?"

"Yeah," Fin said. "It took smarts to arrange the flights and to buy the gun out-of-state, but it was an amateur move to go to the hospital. He'll cop to the murders before end of shift."

"He won't last that long," Olivia noted. "Fred went over Nielson's phone records while we were gone and Tammy called Austin PD about R. L. Houslet—turns out Robert Leander Houslet is this guy's cousin. We hit him with that and he'll have to fold."

Fin scowled at the man pacing inside the interview room.

"That hump fooled me. I want his ass nailed to the wall. You ready?"

Olivia grinned as she said, "Sure am. Cragen planning to observe?"

Judith answered, "He's on the phone with the precinct commander and One P.P. I'm filling in."

Fin nodded to Judith and she made herself comfortable before the observation window. Her "Have fun" sobered Olivia's mirth.

_Getting a confession shouldn't be considered fun… it's part of the resolution of a crime—someone brutalized and violate… still, it is a rush… we match our wits and skill against the perp and, if we're smart enough and prepared enough, we get him before time runs out or he lawyers up…._

Fin entered first with his folder of selected photos and photocopies. Olivia slid into a chair near the end of the heavy wooden table by the pad of paper.

Houslet dashed up to Fin.

"What's going on here? Why couldn't we do this at the hotel?"

"My apologies, Mr. Houslet," Fin said, "but we have rules and regulations we have to follow. Mind sittin' down? It's been a long day."

Olivia stifled a grin.

_I doubt Fin will admit it, but John's methods have rubbed off on him… when he started here, he was all direct confrontation… he's much more devious now…._

Houslet took a seat on Olivia's right. Fin sat across from him, the closed folder on the table between them.

"Mr. Houslet, you told me you learned that your son had been found couple of weeks ago when you were in Tampa, Florida—right?"

Houslet agreed with a nod.

"Yeah—I was there for the Pool and Spa Expo; I go every year."

"How did you find out where Timothy was?"

"I'd hired a private investigator. He called me on my cell phone."

"Did he tell you where the Nielsons were hiding?"

"No."

Fin sat still, the lifted corner of his mouth serving as a friendly smile. Olivia faked a similar smile as she joined Fin in silent waiting.

_A few open-ended questions to get him talking… followed by a chance to tell us some lies… we catch him in one of them—politely, of course—then let him correct his mistake and tell more lies… sooner or later, he'll trip himself up…._

"Well," Houslet admitted, "he did tell me that Nielson's credit card was used at a store on Park Row and that they lived in Washington Heights. I thought New York City was in five parts—boroughs, I mean. I didn't realize that the neighborhoods had names, too."

"Did you get an address?"

Houslet shook his head.

"The fake names Nielson and your ex-wife were using?"

"No, he didn't tell me."

"A phone number?"

Houslet shook his head again.

"Okay," Fin said, the fake smile still curving his lips. "You told me that you were working with Deona Johnson of ACS and Samuel P. Stephanos to get Timothy returned to you. Did the investigator give them Nielson's address and phone number?"

Olivia gritted her teeth behind her smile.

_Adding facts not from Houslet's conversations is risky... he might remember exactly what he told Fin and decide to clam up...._

Houslet shrugged.

"I guess so. When I talked to him, Stephanos knew where to send the legal papers. I mean, if Rodriguez hadn't told them, how would they know?

Fin raised an eyebrow and Olivia cleared her throat to draw Houslet's attention to her.

_Since you got away with it, I'll play along...._

"Good question," she said. "I can't think of another answer. It is a shame Rodriguez didn't tell you how to get in touch with your son."

Houslet sighed.

"Yeah, it is. I could have called Timothy, talked to him. At least I could have heard his voice before Nielson… before Nielson…."

The smile vanished from Fin's lips.

"Before Nielson killed him?"

"Yes, yes. I should have come right up here and taken Timothy back with me—the hell with going through the courts and doing it right. Susan stole him from me and I should have taken him back the same way."

Olivia froze. A glance at Fin showed he'd caught it, too.

_Should… not 'could'… 'could' means he might have, if he had the info… 'should' means he had the info and should have used it… small thing, but that's what we're looking for….._

"Except…."

Fin let the word hang for a full five seconds while Houslet's breathing quickened and his skin paled.

"Except," Fin repeated, "Timothy didn't want to go back with you. He told you so when you called him from Tampa the same day Rodriguez called you."

Fin opened the folder to slide a copy of the Tampa hotel's phone records across the table.

"You called the Nielsons from your hotel room. One call lasted ten seconds. The second was thirty-three minutes later and it lasted eleven minutes. Want to tell me what you were talking about?"

Houslet's gaze, until then aimed at the person talking to him, shifted to the photocopy.

"Okay—I did call Timothy. We talked for a while, but Susan and Nielson had poisoned him against me. My son said he liked them better than me. That's when I started the legal process to get him back—after he refused to let me send him a plane ticket home."

Fin's voice was quiet, gentle. Houslet, his attention still on the photocopy, missed the intensity of the detective's glare as he set his snare.

"That must of hurt, knowing your son wanted to live with the folks who stole him from you."

"Damn right it hurts."

"Knowing he wanted to live with a sick freak who paraded around him like a plucked chicken?"

Houslet jerked his head up and stared at Fin. Olivia picked up the thread.

"A nudist who encouraged your son to go naked, too?"

Houslet turned and shook his head in an uneven rhythm.

_We're getting to him…._

"Adults not dressed in front of kids—that's just wrong, but it was also... it was the way Timothy spoke to me. He said it didn't matter if I'd found them, he wasn't ever coming back. I wasn't fun. My home wasn't fun. What I did wasn't fun. Fun was being on the run with my ex-wife and her lover. It was like a game they were playing—me finding and them hiding—nothing but hide and seek over and over again until I ran out of money and patience. Then, they'd win."

For a moment, Houslet sat stock still, his attention drawn so far inside himself that Olivia knew he was reliving the scene with his family and Dan Nielson.

_You flew up here… you went to the apartment with the gun you bought in Florida… you confronted Nielson… you had him and Susan and Timothy sit down and you told them how angry you were… but telling them wasn't enough…._

When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and hushed.

"I wasn't going to let them win."

"So you…?"

Houslet shifted his gaze to the folder from which Fin had pulled the phone records.

"It's all in there, isn't it? The gun, my trip up here, the ticket I bought Robbie after you called and told me Timothy was dead. You already know I killed them, don't you?"

"Yes, we do," Olivia admitted.

"How?"

"It's called police work," Fin said harshly. "Why'd you shoot Nielson in the chest?"

Houslet slumped forward, chin to chest, shoulders sagging as he admitted his guilt.

"I wanted him to suffer. It was his fault Susan left me, his fault Timothy wouldn't come home. I wanted him to take a long time and I wanted him to see them sitting there dead while he died."

"And why his pets?" Olivia asked, "the two dogs and the birds?"

"Maybe you'd get the dogs to sniff me or the parrots would squawk my name or something. Shooting them seemed like a good idea...."

Houslet swallowed hard twice.

"...but it wasn't. I should have shot me instead."

Fin stood up, folded his arms across his chest, and sneered at the perp trembled before him.

"We need you," he said, "to write it out for us."

Olivia slid the pad of paper and a pen toward Houslet. He took up the pen an began to scrawl his confession.

SVU Squad Room  
25 June

The sun had set, taking with it the majority of the light in the squad room. Decisions made elsewhere, ostensibly to support energy conservation, kept most of the overhead lights off.

_So we stumble around in he dark... the department's trade-off between the electric bill and our HMO costs...._

John had turned on his desk lamp hours ago, angling it to cast its meager pool of light on his keyboard and the scant info he had about Madelyn McClure.

_She isn't in the phone book... she's not in our system... her name comes up in Google only once, and I doubt a florist in Illinois is scamming a rape victim here...._

Across the room from John, Couch was taking notes after a long phone call conducted in what sounded like Arabic. No one else was at their desks.

_Tammy and Fred are canvassing all-night copy shops near Bridget Shanahan's apartment, checking if McClure's cheap business card was made by one of them... Elliot's doing a coffee and cruller run—nice guy, that Elliot—and Otten is watching Olivia and Fin close the Nielson murders...._

He gave the interview room a sour glare.

_My case... my close... not that I mind working with Elliot... at least he doesn't clam up and ignore me if I open my mouth... but I should be in there with Houslet... I went from primary on that case to second on this one... all Fin's fault...._

A squeak of door hinges announced Cragen's departure from his office. He headed toward the interview room, but a call from Couch had diverted him to Sofarelli's desk. He stood with his back to Munch, his right hand rubbing the skin just under the edge of his wrist cast.

"Captain," Couch said, "thought you'd want to know—I just finished talking to Imam Rahmani. Eshan called and asked to meet him to discuss relocating his family. The imam will call again when the details are firm."

"Good, that's good," Cragen told him. "You'll have to let Casey know...."

John tuned them out to concentrate on his own work.

_A search for stores that sell pre-paid cells on Staten Island... if whoever fooled Shanahan into recanting is tied to Sikkens and his false ID, maybe they're based near where he lives...._

A sudden drop in volume in the conversation next to him grabbed his attention.

Keeping his gaze on the list of stores displayed on his monitor, Munch tipped his head towards the two men.

_Can' make much of it out… 'study'... 'tenth'... 'can do'... doesn't sound like much of a secret...._

He went back to sorting the businesses by their distance from Sikkens' residence.

"Found Madelyn McClure yet?"

John jumped at the sound of his captain's voice now coming from above his shoulder.

_Yeah, right... I'm supposed to find a fictitious person with nothing more than her phony name in less than five hours...._

"Turns out she's holding a sign out front with the protestors," he told his boss. "Elliot's bringing her in now."

Cragen reared back on his heels, his eyes wide. Before he could say anything congratulatory, John grinned up at his superior.

"Funny, John," Cragen told him. "Real funny."

John leaned back, his hands folded on his lap.

"I did convince Bridget Shanahan to come in first thing tomorrow and describe McClure to a sketch artist. We'll canvass the stores selling pre-paid cells around Shanahan's and Sikken's addresses, see if anyone there recognizes Ms. McClure—that's assuming you'll approve the person-hours."

"It's a long-shot," Cragen said, "but I don't like victims being conned into recanting. You can have Larsen and Reinhardt from the day shift and Fred and Tammy at least through tomorrow."

The captain resumed his trip to Interview Two. Munch finished formatting his search results then sent them to the printer.

"Hey, John—got a minute?"

Munch tossed the printout on his desk.

"For you, Couch—I can spare ninety seconds."

He perched on the corner of the younger man's desk.

"What do you need?" he asked. "Advice from a seasoned veteran? Hints on how to stay sane in this place?"

Couch sat upright in his chair, toes braced against the floor, his gaze centered on John's dark lenses.

"I want to know what the problem is between you and Judith."

_Uh-oh… Otten's ninja partner wants to defend her honor…_

John tipped his head to the left and tried to appear put-upon.

"It's lust. She just can't keep her hands off me. Think you could talk to her about it? It's really annoying."

Couch did not smile.

"John, I'm serious about this."

Munch raised his hands to ward off Sofarelli's ill-humor.

_I can't admit she's after my job without looking like I can't do my job… better give him something else... something profound, something important, something just close enough to reality that it rings true... something like...._

"Okay, Couch. I don't like your partner because she is a chocolate-chomping, kirsch-swilling, clock-making Swiss. Switzerland is a blight across the pond, a country that hides its financial and corporate dishonor behind a screen of milk chocolate and perforated cheese. Everyone thinks the Swiss are trustworthy and industrious—just like their knives with their corkscrews and hoof picks—but they ignore the fact that the Gnomes of Zurich built their financial juggernaut on the ashes of millions of helpless victims."

Couch's eyes glazed as he tried to sort through John's verbiage. John used his confusion to pile it deeper.

"Didn't you know? Back when Hitler was devising the Final Solution to the problem of me and my kind, Switzerland was a safe haven for the life savings of Jews about to be overrun by the Nazis and their friendly neighborhood death camps. After the war, when the survivors tried to withdraw their money, the Swiss threw up hurdle after hurdle after bureaucratic hurdle and stopped them cold."

He leaned over, his face at Couch's level, and assumed a Swiss accent.

_It's actually Yiddish, but you won't know the difference…._

"Do you haff the account number and the date the account was opened? Can you prove that your father, your uncle, your brother, your grandfather, your son is deceased? Ja, ve know the_ Schutzstaffel_ didn't provide death certificates, but ve must have papers! Ve must have proof!"

John stood up so he could stare straight down at Couch.

"Holocaust survivors had lost everything. Damn few were able to produce the proper documentation. In 1966, the Swiss banks took every account without activity in the previous thirty years and closed them to pay the accumulated bank fees. Some banks lost or deliberately discarded all records of those accounts."

_I see the shock on your face... it's all true—not that it has anything to do with Otten, but since I've finessed you this far...._

"Thirty years later," Munch continued, his voice harsh with scorn, "the Volcker Committee investigated the Swiss banks and their handling of those accounts. They found 47,792 accounts that were 'highly likely' to have belonged to Holocaust victims. If the average balance for those accounts was 16,000 francs, that's 768,000,000 Swiss francs. Add sixty years' of interest and convert to dollars. Those Swiss banks had in their possession over seven billion dollars, all of it leached from the ashes of cremated Jews."

Couch opened his mouth. Before he could speak, Munch pointed his finger at his chest.

"You ask why I hate the Swiss. The real question is 'Why doesn't everybody hate them?'"

Couch leaned back to avoid the accusatory finger.

"But Judith isn't Swiss," he said. "She's Jewish."

John snorted his disgust at Couch's statement.

_For this one, I don't mind getting personal… she might not be a banker, but she definitely benefited from being Swiss…._

"Yes, she's observant enough to make even black kids into Yids, but her family spent the Holocaust in good ol' neutral Switzerland. No yellow stars on their clothing. No midnight pounding on their door. No cattle cars, no tattooed numbers, no Zyklon-B, no crematoriums for her parents and aunts and uncles and cousins. All of them were safe and happy in Heidi-land."

"But that's not her fault!"

Munch leaned so close to Couch, their noses almost touched.

"Wait until they incinerate six million Lutherans," he whispered. "You'll understand."

Couch drew back from him, a "What the hell?" frown distorting his face. Munch patted him on the shoulder and returned to his own desk.

_He's now thoroughly perplexed and confused... and probably won't ever ask that question again…._

At the back of the squad room, in a shadow made by an overhead lamp empty of bulbs, Judith Otten quivered in rage at Munch's overheard words.

Arraignment Court  
Part 10  
June 26

"...docket number 626-315, People versus Richard Houslet. Charges are two counts murder in the second degree, one count attempted murder, and five counts of malicious killing of an animal."

Rick Houslet, his t-shirt and jeans even more wrinkled after a night in Rikers, was led out from the holding pens while the bridge officer read the charges against him. At the railing, his public defender, a young black man in a charcoal gray suit, spoke with him in whispers. The noise from the attorneys, family and friends of those being arraigned, a half-dozen courtroom regulars—legal junkies who enjoy the fast action of arraignments, and the court officers kept Casey from overhearing the conversation.

_Doesn't matter... Houslet will plead 'guilty' because his attorney couldn't talk him out of it... which means he lost out on a ready-made media circus for the trial...._

The judge, the Honorable Alan Ridenour, glanced at the case folder and sighed.

"Oh, good," he said, "It's the 'pets aren't trash' case. Lucky me. Mr. Otten, how does your client plead?"

"Your honor," the young attorney said, "my client pleads 'guilty' to all charges."

Next to him, Houslet stared at his feet.

"Really?" asked Judge Ridenour. "That's a switch. Mister...uh—Houslet? Do you know what you're doing?

Houslet's head moved up and down.

"You're not playing ventriloquist's dummy with your client, are you?"

The attorney drew himself up to his full 5' 11" height and drew in a deep breath.

"Save it, Counselor. Ms. Novak—do you know what you're doing?"

Casey ducked her head to keep her smile hidden.

"Yes, your honor. My office is drawing up the sentencing agreement."

Ridenour stared sourly at the three of them.

"On behalf of whichever of my colleagues would have been stuck trying this case, I thank you."

He slammed his gavel onto its block.

"Defendant is remanded back into custody to await sentencing. Who's next?"

Rick Houslet was led away. His public defender swung into step next to Casey as she left the courtroom.

"I noticed you dropped 'misdemeanor' from the charge of killing Nielson's pets. You haven't found a way to make those five charges felonies, have you?"

Casey slowed her walk to avoid a cluster of attorneys and clients.

"You know as well as I do pets have no special standing, Now, if those poodles had been show dogs, then killing them would be a felony. The order to omit "misdemeanor" came straight from Bureau Chief Beale. He wanted the charges to sound as harsh as possible."

"You succeeded. Think it will make those protestors go away?

Casey dodged around a marble pillar..

"You don't need them to sway a jury. Why do you care?"

Otten took two large steps and swung around to face her, forcing Casey to stop dead in her tracks.

"My mother's a detective," he said, "my brother's a street cop, my father was a captain and that's just my immediate family. Being a public defender may make me the black sheep, but it doesn't stop my worrying about them. An angry mob where my mom works is not a good thing."

Casey gaped at him for a second, then the light dawned for her.

_Damn…he's Derek Otten… now I feel like an idiot… I've seen him around, gone against him once and won... but I didn't realize he was Judith Otten's son…._

"My apologies," she said. "I've seen the photo on your mother's desk several times, but I didn't tie it to you."

Derek Otten grinned.

"I can understand that. I've may have become a man that day, but I also grew a lot since then. We still on for three-thirty?"

Casey resumed her course toward her next assigned courtroom.

"You bet. Be prepared—I'm looking for forty years on all counts."

"Ha!" he replied. "Twenty-five max on the felonies, dismissal on the misdemeanors."

"Not with those protestors leading the news shows. Better warn your client."

Otten raised his briefcase in a farewell salute as they parted for their respective destinations.


	10. Tropical Storm: part one

**A/N: Foul language warning**

Forest Fountains Shopping Center  
Staten Island, NY  
29 June

_Locate the store... show McClure's sketch around... ask if anyone has seen her... write down any leads... leave... check out the leads... come back to talk to the night shift... show sketch... write down any leads... check out the leads… locate the store… show McClure's sketch around… repeat until McClure is found or we start beating our heads against a wall...._

"I hate canvassing."

Stabler and Munch were standing in the parking lot of a Staten Island strip mall. The late afternoon sun had heated their Taurus until the door handle seared Elliot's hand.

John opened the passenger door, side-stepping to avoid the blast of hot air that blew from the interior.

"Elliot, 'hate' isn't strong enough. Try 'loathe and despise from the bottom of my aching feet to the top of my heat-stroke stricken head'."

"That works for me," Elliot replied, "considering I've sweat through my socks."

Three days had passed without progress in the Shanahan case. Albert Sikkens, a.k.a. Raymond Smith, was still in Rikers, but the search for Madelyn McClure, the woman who convinced Bridget Shanahan to withdraw her rape charge, had not been found.

Only good thing is that Bridget refiled her complaint. Not finding McClure is enough proof that she was conned into recanting….

After the car's A/C had brought the temperature down to almost bearable, Elliot asked, "How many left to do?"

John crossed "Cellular Junction" off his list.

"That was the last one. If none of these leads pans out..."

He pointed to the three names and phone numbers written in his pad.

"...we're back to square one."

Manhattan Homicide Squad Room  
27th Precinct  
June 29

"I'm telling you, Lieu—you've got to talk to Joe about Judith Otten."

Anita Van Buren stood by Ed Green's desk. Fontana's chair was unoccupied, his reading glasses gone from their customary spot by his keyboard.

_Fontana has the day off, which is why Ed is willing to talk about him…._

Green sat hunched forward in his chair, his hands grasping empty air as he sought the words to explain his frustration.

"It's like he can't see or think anything but her."

The rising tone of Green's voice warned her that the younger detective was reaching the ends of his patience.

"For example, Joe asked me what I thought she ate for breakfast. He said that he wanted to be prepared. I asked if she was spending the night and he got real pissed at me. Turns out he's wondering about 'post-marital grocery shopping'—that's exactly how he put it. They haven't been on a date yet and he's already got them married."

"Well, if they haven't been dating," Van Buren asked, "what have they been doing?"

Ed shook his head.

"You won't believe it. First, he gave her some of his informants."

"Which ones?"

"Jebu and Rebar, corner boys that work Cabrini Boulevard. A bouncer named Jason Willig at LevelUP in Soho and Brad Reed—he makes pizza at a college hangout on Morningside."

Anita folded her arms across her chest.

"Hmm—didn't Reed give you the perp in the Alton murder?"

"Yeah and Rebar helped us with that drug dealer who got shot last fall. Anyways, next thing was Joe took her to theWest Side Rifle & Pistol Range. That was yesterday."

"Yesterday was Sunday; West Side is closed."

"Joe's got a super-executive membership; for him, it opens on Sunday."

Anita frowned at yet more proof that Fontana had more money than God.

"Y'know," Ed said, "if Joe's really interested in this lady, he shouldn't treat her like a cop."

Anita pursed her lips and turned her attention to the ceiling.

_No way I'm gonna admit Fontana's tactics come from me…._

"Any idea what he's planning next?" she asked.

Ed shrugged, his fingers spread wide to show his lack of comprehension.

"He said something about a cactus garden."

Anita leaned forward, her gaze boring into Green.

"A what?"

SVU Squad Room  
30 June

It sat on Otten's desk: a bowl, three inches high and nine inches across, glazed deep blue and containing a variety of spiny plants. At its center, a clear plastic spike stuck between a orange spiky ball and a green column with long whiskery spines held a small florist's envelope.

Olivia, Tammy, and Sue Lynde from Howie's shift were examining the oddity when Judith arrived. Tammy noticed her presence first.

"Hey, Judith. Someone sent you cactuses."

"Cacti are like the opposite of roses," Sue noted. "You got a collar sending you threats?"

Judith plucked the envelope from its holder and began to open it.

"No one this creative. A poorly spelled threat is usually…."

She read the card inside and chuckled.

"Okay—this is the solution to my problem."

"It's the what?" Olivia asked.

Judith held the card up. On it, in neat printing, were the words "The solution to your problem." While the three women puzzled over the message, she shifted the cactus garden to the right-hand corner of her desk and shoved her desk lamp closer to it.

"That should make it happy," she said.

"Who's it from?" Tammy asked.

"The card doesn't say, but I think it's Detective Fontana."

She sat down and opened her e-mail folder. Olivia leaned over, craning her neck to get into Otten's line-of-sight.

"Smugtana sent you cactuses—cacti—whatever. Why?"

"According to the card, to solve my problem."

"What problem?"

"Good afternoon, ladies, Otten. How are all of you this hot, sweltery day?"

John Munch approached at such a pace that Tammy sidestepped out of his way. Instead of coming to a halt, John spun on his heel and began to sit on the corner of Otten's desk.

"Don't I get a welcome? Some praise? I did manage to arrive on—"

Olivia couldn't tell if it was due to the horrified expectation on their faces or the sensation of pinpricks in a delicate area, but John's downward motion ceased about a half-foot from the desk top. He stayed that way, knees bent awkwardly, his eyes bugged out and lips flattened against his teeth while he felt under him for the obstruction.

"Ow! Damn! What the hell—?"

He jumped away from the desk and stared first at the side of his hand then at the cacti he almost had flattened.

"Good afternoon, Detective Munch," Judith said. "Need a tweezers?"

"No!"

He stomped away, pausing by the lockers to pluck a spine from his palm and surreptitiously pat the back of his trousers for damage. Judith did not bother to hide her glee as she answered Olivia's earlier question.

"That problem."

Howie and Elliot ran the day's shift meeting. Cragen, according to Howie's shift admin, was tied up in a contract negotiation meeting downtown.

"Let's wish them all luck—twenty-eight months without a contract bites," Howie told the assembled unit.

No one looked happy about the lack of progress with McClure…

_Although we've got one more day… Cragen can't yank John and me from the case if he's not here…._

…or with the lack of progress with the Dykeman Rapist.

"Any chance your perp was picked up for something else somewhere else?" Tierney asked Sofarelli.

"Sure," Couch admitted, "but we requested notification if anyone meeting the description is arrested or questioned—still nada."

"Any idea when he'll strike again?" Larsen called from by the coffee pot.

The younger detective stiffened at the question. Elliot watched him force his shoulders and jaw muscles to relax before answering in the negative. Judith, a few feet to his left, wore the blank face she used to mask her emotions.

_They're both feeling the strain… the knowledge that each day they don't find this guy is a day someone may be raped by him… the fear that someone will judge them on their lack of progress on this one case... Judith's got more experience with this pressure so I need make sure Couch is okay…._

"Hey, Al—" Elliot called to him as the shift meeting ended, "got a minute?"

Couch held up his empty mug—a sign he'd be right along. Elliot went into Interview One and left the door open. A minute later, Couch sat down across from him at the battered wooden table.

"Woodshed time?" he asked.

Elliot rested an elbow on the table and leaned on it, hoping his smile would put his friend at ease.

"Pretend we're just sitting here cursing Altmeier for smoking those cherry cigars the previous shift."

Couch clutched his throat and made gasping sounds while Elliot grinned.

"Nothing like the smell of that RMP," Stabler said, "half-finished take-out, sweat, vomit, stale cigarette smoke, stale cigar smoke, stale whatever the perps had on them...."

"Don't forget what you added to the mix," Couch said with two fingers pinching his nose.

Elliot added a wistful chuckle to his grin.

"That was my daughters' fault—'Daddy, you wearing your birthday present?' Now they know enough to smell the aftershave before buying it."

They spent a few minutes reminiscing then Stabler got to the point.

"You eating okay? Sleeping okay?"

Couch nodded then said, "But Judith's not."

"Oh?"

"All she told me was that she was glad to have a new set of nightmares; hers were getting old."

Elliot pursed his lips together and nodded.

"That's one thing SVU is good for," he said, "fresh nightmares. I'll talk to her about it. You still teaching your classes?"

"Yep. Two beginner classes a week, one advanced. I'm taking three students to Florida for their black belt tests in October.

_Eating, sleeping, outside activities—all good... now the hard one...._

"How about you and Hanan? Things okay there?"

Couch drew himself up to his full height and stared straight at Elliot.

"Captain Cragen told me euphemisms won't cut it here. Are you asking if Hanan and me are still doing the horizontal hula?"

Elliot's snort of laughter joined Couch's low chuckle then the younger man's expression turned solemn.

"Honestly? I take statements from rape victims; I read their medical reports. I research the patterns and M.O.s of sex offenders and listen to John explain how molesters convince children to let themselves be abused."

Couch's eyes clouded as he shifted his focus from his friend to the wall over his shoulder.

"How in hell I'm supposed to make love to my wife after that? It's the same moves, the same words, the same sensations. I know she's not being forced and my intent is different, but I can't get my mind around it enough to do any good."

_So, you're at that point...._

"It's a phase," Elliot assured him, "part of the adjustment to working here. It's actually a good thing."

Couch's jaw dropped open.

"Disappointing my wife is a good thing?"

"No, no," Elliot said, his words hurrying to cancel that impression. "That's never a good thing, but it shows you have some understanding of what the victims go through. Not every detective assigned here does, especially the guys. That's the good thing."

_Assuming you don't take it too far and crack under it... Cassidy's the poster child for that...._

"Great," replied Couch, "I can see my review now: 'Sofarelli shows his adjustment to his new assignment by his inability to have sex with his wife.' Seriously, Elliot—any suggestions?"

Elliot drew in a deep breath and held it as he thought.

_There aren't any easy answers... I only know what worked for Kathy and me...._

"Try letting Hanan be the aggressor, see if having her make the first moves makes it feel different for you."

Couch considered the suggestion.

"Okay, I can see that. The only time in weeks things worked, she started it. Backed me into the kitchen counter and—yeah. Thanks, guy. I appreciate it."

Judith, however, wasn't as appreciative of Stabler's interest in her well-being.

"Elliot, they're just nightmares," she told him. "I had them after I shot Rankin, after the Battaglia killings, when David died, and I'm having them again. They're normal and they will pass."

It took some effort, but she finally convinced Elliot without having to describe any of her dreams. She left the interview room and hid her relief behind an offer to fetch coffee for her partner.

_Our lead detective doesn't need to know last night I dreamt the warehouse search, the shots fired at Ed Tucker and me, my instinctive response, then my kneeling over the man I killed... and seeing Detective Munch's lifeless face...._

The past four days had also seen Fin completely ignore John's attempts to interact with him. No matter what Munch did—be it a simple "Hey, Fin—hasn't this gone on long enough?" or his virtuoso paper-shuffling performance that covered Fin's desk with the contents of three closed case files, a performance through which Fin continued to enter his DD-5 without missing a keystroke—Tutuola ignored him completely. He timed his arrivals and departures to avoid John's; he stood with Benson during meetings, ate his meals on his own, and kept his attention on his own work, never letting it stray to Munch's side of the shared desk.

Whatever light reflected from Munch's black suits and pale skin did not register on Tutuola's retinas and whatever sound John made failed to stir his eardrums, so completely did Fin ignore John.

_I'm jealous… wish I could ignore Stabler like that… of course, he gave up trying to get my attention after two days—never did try to apologize, just tried to get my attention... now, we sit across from each other like a woman who had a completely viable theory and the guy who thought she was a drooling idiot…._

Olivia glanced at Cragen's empty office.

_Didn't think he'd let it go on this long… I know Huang talked to him about Stabler and me being partnered for too long… maybe he's taking the opportunity to see how we work apart… and maybe he's so caught up in police politics that he's forgotten about us… don't know how long this unit can run on auto-pilot, but hey—if it keeps me with Fin, I'm happy…._

She spun her chair left and called to Judith, who was copying contact info from her computer to her notepad.

"That family relocation of yours still on track?"

Judith finished a swallow of coffee before answering.

"According to Couch, yes."

Olivia grabbed her mug and moved to the chair by Otten's desk to hear more.

"Novak and he are working with the Manhattan Avenue Islamic Center," Judith told her, "unofficially, of course. The plan is for them to spirit the family away in the next day or so. Novak got her boss and the D.A. to pull strings and get new green cards for them. Rahmani has arranged for a mosque to take them in, help them get on their feet again. It won't be as comfy as what they had here, but they'll be safe.

She took another sip then said, "I certainly don't envy them."

"I know what you mean," Olivia replied. "I had a friend go into witness protection for a couple of years. She said it was hell—having to leave behind her family, her career, her friends and then answer to a new name, remember a different life history, work a job that bored her silly. She said the happiest day of her life was the day she learned she could come home."

Judith pointed her mechanical pencil at Benson.

"Exactly—except the Eshans can never go home. Refusing to fulfill their tribal obligations increases the dishonor to the point that their tribe and the tribe Eshan offended will need revenge—not just from Eshan, but from his children and their children."

Olivia nodded.

_You're right… compared to that, Alex had it easy…._

Men's Room  
Sixteenth Precinct  
30 June

Tutuola had just thrown his paper towel in the trash can when the door opened.

_Damn... not who I wanted to see right now... no double-take so he knew I was in here... he wants a private confrontation...._

Munch pushed the door shut behind him. Fin quickly checked his stance, expression, and where his hands were.

_Hands loose at his sides... not braced to launch himself at me... eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, lips tight together...he's mad, but he'll use words... those I can hand_le....

'You going to tell me why you're upset with me?" John asked.

Fin keep his own stance loose while he stared straight at John's dark lenses.

"I ain't upset with you."

"All right—you're not upset. You're mad as hell. You going to tell me why you're mad as hell at me?"

"You know."

John blinked twice, but his glare did not waver.

"No, I don't know. I don't know anything about this. All I know is that you know and you won't tell me."

_Damn it, Munch... bad enough you pretending not to know—don't make me give it up in public...._

"You know, Munch. Now, let me by."

"Let you by? To do what? To throw seven years of partnership away like last week's take-out? To keep Elliot and Olivia from working out whatever their problems are? What are you—the anti-_shadchen_? Odafin Tutuola, breaking up partners since 2007."

The two glowered at one other, each too aware of the other's weaknesses and strengths to want a fight, both trained and ready to take it that far if needed. The impasse ended when John spoke.

"Thanks for the fig shake," he said. "Thanks for all the rides. Don't ask me to be your Jew again—I won't. Know why? Because you're a _shmok_, a pustulant _petseleh_ of a prick. As far as I'm concerned, _gai tren zich_ with a frozen acid dildo dipped in powdered glass. Take it and _shtup es in toches_—_capisce_?"

Fin felt his muscles tighten at the fighting words, but he held himself in check.

_You tried to ruin me for a joke... I don't give you nothing... not even the knowledge your words hurt....._

John then turned sideways, face to the wall, leaving Fin space enough to depart.

_Figured you'd pussy out... the guilty ones always do...._

Fin grabbed the door handle, ignoring the urge to slam it against the wall, and walked out.

_He's not done... man's a drama queen... he'll demand his book back or shout something about me needing his unique skills... any second now.._..

The door swung shut behind him, leaving Fin alone in the hall.

_Damn… must of meant what he said…._

"Fin!"

Olivia dashed up, her arm half through the sleeve of her sweater, a slip of paper clutched in her hand.

"There's a child missing from the tennis courts in Riverside Park. Witness saw a man talking to him after his mother lost track of him. Elliot says go now. You carrying?"

Fin swung into step next to her.

"Yeah—I'm good."


	11. Tropical Storm: part two

Author's Note" Any inaccuracies with the JFK descriptions should be blamed on terrorists and the tightening of security due to them; otherwise, airport info would be more readily available.

Homicide: Life on the Streets had Munch mention a brother in the drywall business, but this brother was never mentioned again. For the purposes of reconciling H:LotS and L&O:SVU, this brother becomes Uncle Andrew.

Warning: there is foul language in this chapter.

SVU Squadroom  
30 June

The call from the 24th Precinct stopped all other case work and drove any personal concerns from mind. Elliot took down the pertinent info and handed it to Olivia. He didn't catch her eye and she said nothing, only nodded once to acknowledge her position as primary before heading out the door.

He then called Fred and Tammy, who were driving back after a follow-up interview in Bensonhurst, and redirected them to Riverside Park.

_The more experienced detectives, the better... Liv knows how to keep them from tripping over each other...._

Elliot's next call was to Cragen. He had to leave a message in his captain's voicemail.

_It's now Cap's decision to be on-scene or stay at his meeting.... in his absence, I'm in charge with Couch and Judith catching whatever else comes at us tonight...._

The next few minutes were devoted to logistics and research: calling up lists of registered sex offenders living around W. 96th Street, checking for similar disappearances, non-custodial kidnappings…

_… whatever data might give Liv an edge at the scene… with a missing kid, time starts running out immediately…._

The phone rang. Couch grabbed it before Judith could. She switched her grab motion into a wave at Elliot.

"The local perverts just printed. I'm sending similar cases next."

Munch came through the door. Elliot ignored his sour grimace and pointed at him.

"John, grab your gear and these printouts. We got a missing kid at Riverside Park—the tennis courts. Try and catch Liv and Fin at the motor pool; if you can't, get a car and follow."

Munch detoured to the printer without a word said. Elliot was about to return to his desk when Couch beckoned to him. The younger man had the receiver of his phone in one hand and his finger on the "hold" button.

"How do I stop a flight from leaving JFK?" he asked.

"Throw yourself in the jet engine," Judith said, her attention still focused on select and print commands. "Of course, the M.E. will hate you forever—"

"I'm serious," Couch snapped at her. "Admad Eshan's on the phone—he says his daughter, wife, and brother-in-law are on their way to Kabul."

Judith froze, her fingers still on her keyboard. John spun away from the printer and stared in shock at Couch.

_It take a lot to stop us in our tracks... like a mother taking her daughter to be gang-raped...._

"What's the story?" Elliot asked.

"Before he went to work today, Eshan told his family to pack a few things for a trip—no other info. His son Atiqullah just called him. Eshan's brother Nurzai showed up..."

Couch glanced at the squadroom clock.

"... about ninety minutes ago. He made Asma drink something out of a bottle while Saira—that's his wife—held her down. Nurzai told Atiqullah that someone from their mosque would come for him and his sisters; he also forbid him to call his father. The three of them then left in a cab. Eshan thinks his wife guessed what was going on and told his brother."

"Ninety minutes ago," John called from the printer. "Kid waited long enough. Probably working up the nerve to disobey his uncle."

"Good thing he did," Elliot said. "Tell Eshan a RMP will pick him up and take him to JFK. You'll meet him there."

Couch spoke to Eshan in Farsi. Elliot turned to Judith.

"Arrange for that transport then call the Port Authority police—have them find out what flight the Eshans are on and hold it."

John joined them, the printouts in his hand.

"Someone needs to be at that apartment," he said. "Whoever comes for those kids will take them away—maybe use them as leverage to keep Eshan from stopping his brother."

"I'll go," said Judith.

"You don't speak Farsi," Couch said, the phone still in his hand, "and whoever Nurzai sent for the children won't listen to a woman."

Judith's derisive snort threatened to blow papers from her desk.

"They'll listen to a woman with a badge and back-up from the Sixth," she informed her partner, "and Atiqullah speaks English; Munira told us so."

Elliot shook his head.

"I don't like it. It leaves you both working solo where it could get ugly fast. I'll send John with backup—"

John stepped closer to him, standing so that neither Couch nor Judith could see his lips.

"Me retrieving two young girls from a group of angry Muslims," he whispered, "is a very bad idea. The Sixth knows its immigrant populations so let Judith handle it with their help. The PA guys know me from those diplomatic escorts I work; I'll go with Couch."

Elliot acknowledged John's suggestion with a curt nod then turned back to the waiting detectives.

"Al, you take John to the airport. Judith, arrange back-up and head to the Eshan residence. I'll call Casey's office about warrants."

Couch stood up and patted his belt where his holster and other hardware hung then he raised an eyebrow at his partner.

"You still don't speak Farsi."

"I'll handle it," she replied. "You be careful and I'll be careful."

On her way out, she paused by the lockers, where Munch was retrieving his weapon.

"Bring my partner back in one piece," she ordered, her voice pitched low for only him to hear.

Munch glared down at her. "Is that a threat?"

"Call it a request that I'm not sure you can fill."

Before he could reply, she breezed through the door. He glared after her.

_Bitch… looks and acts like all my ex-wives… but hey—I'm working with Couch on something major… not as fifth on Olivia's case… more visibility… more important… better for me… Otten can have the angry mob… worse for her…._

Much to Elliot's surprise, the squadroom was annoyingly noisy. The background sounds--the foot stomps and conversations from people using the stairs as a shortcut, the complaints and door slams from the holding pen, the rush of air through the A/C vents, the car horns and engine noise poorly muffled by six stories and the double-paned windows, Chloe's clogs slapping the linoleum as she moved about—filled the silence left by his colleagues' departures.

_Never realized how loud the place is... wonder how far a hearing loss grievance would get?_

He spent the next few moments mentally planning who to reassign if more calls came in before calling up his e-mail.  
_  
Various departmental news... possible progress on our contract...would be nice, but we keep hearing that rumor... Hanan RSVP'ed--she and Couch "are happy to attend the Stabler Independence Day party"... I'd better warn Mom to buy mayonnaise for the burgers...._

Elliot thought back to the day he had met Hanan. He and Couch had swung to the edge of their patrol area where she was waiting at a hot dog stand.

_After hearing Couch talk about her, I expected a stunning beauty... Hanan was as average as a girl can get... yeah, right—Couch probably thought the same about Kathy when he met her... we all see the women we love as beautiful…._

The three of them had eaten hot dogs, drank soda pop, and talked. Hanan spoke of her studies at NYU. Elliot told her some mostly-clean stories about her husband's rookie experiences while Couch rolled his eyes and denied everything. Had Couch not told Elliot that Hanan had come to the U.S. at the age of ten, her family part of the stream of political refugees fleeing the aftermath of Iran's Islamic Revolution, he would have thought her Brooklyn born-and-raised.

_I also didn't guess she was a black-belt... that's where Couch first noticed her—winning her sparring competition with an axe kick to her opponent's head... must have been love and fear at first sight..._

His cell phone rang.

"Dad? It's Elizabeth. You busy?"

The excitement in her voice brought a grin to his face.

"Not right now, honey. What's up?"

"I pitched a no-hitter! Three up, three down, nine innings! Even Dicki-Richard was cheering for me! Nobody on my team would look at me or talk to me—they were all afraid they'd jinx me, but I did it. I pitched a no-hitter!"

The squeal that followed pierced his brain as it ran up into the ultrasonic. Elliot switched ears then heaped praises on his youngest girl.

"Daddy, I was so scared I'd blow it, but you keep saying I got the skill—I just need to concentrate so I shut out all the yelling and I concentrated on getting the ball across the plate and it worked—it really worked! Uncle Steve taped the whole thing and he's getting me a copy. I'll bring it to Grandma's for the party so you can see it—you want to watch it, don't you?"

"Of course I do, sweetheart. I want to watch every second of it. I'm so proud of you, so very proud."

They talked some more about the team party after the game and the upcoming family get-together then Elizabeth told him she had to call Grandma and they said their good-byes. Elliot frowned at the now-silent cell phone.  
_  
That's one problem with my job... no one to boast to when one of my kids does something great... we never lean back in our chairs and shoot the bull... we talk shop, not about our lives... hell, we can't talk about what we don't have...._

He slid the phone back into his jacket pocket.

_Part-time dad, hearing about my daughter's triumphs after-the-fact… I'm missing out on what they're doing and seeing... I'm not there to cheer them on... I'm not there to help when they need it...._

The dull ache around his heart reminded him that they weren't the only ones to need help and cheering on.

_It was a lot better coming home to Kathy and our kids than an empty apartment... not her fault I refused to bring the horrors home with me... we lost the ability to talk... to share dreams... truth is, I cut her out of my life before she left me...I thought I was protecting her; instead, I hurt her badly... wish I could have seen it coming and warned myself... stopped it before it was too late...._

His gaze shifted to the photos on his desk, all taken in happier times, then to the empty desk just past their frames.

_Did the same with Olivia... let things get so bad they can't be fixed... two intelligent, beautiful women, both smart enough to dump me.... that's the life I live now… don't have to like it… just have to get used to it…._

Enroute to JFK (Airport)  
30 June

Couch left the motor pool with lights and siren, driving past the lone animal rights protestor still holding vigil outside the station house. Next to him, John braced himself against the glove box as he called the Port Authority's Central Police Desk, identifying himself and asking for the JFK unit.

"Ferguson, it's Munch... yeah, the Romanian ambassador escort... you can stop laughing; it wasn't that funny. We have a girl being taken against her will to Afghanistan by her mother and uncle. Name is Asma Eshan. Adults are Saira Eshan and Nurzai Eshan, all Afghan citizens—no, nothing consular this time. We're on our way to take custody of the adults and return the daughter to her father... name is Admad Eshan—he's en route via RMP now. Can you hold their flight for us?"

After relaying some instructions from Couch, John hung up then called Central Dispatch to relay the contact info to the RMP transporting Eshan.

"That's that," he said as he pocketed his phone. "Sam Ferguson will hold the flight and clear us to drive right up to it—bypassing security and the terminals. You know where to go?"

"Not a clue. Never worked a case at JFK."

"I'll tell you where to turn. Ferguson will meet us there."

They drove through the Midtown Tunnel and down I-475, the late rush hour traffic parting for them when it could, Couch bypassing it via shoulder and median when it could not. From the Van Wyck, John directed Couch to an exit that led to a guarded gate where a white and blue Port Authority Police vehicle was parked. Its driver, a stocky man with a thick head of white hair, a lieutenant's gold bars on his collar, and a lanyard thick with ID and keycards, waited by the guard shack..

As he approached their car, a wide grin spread across his face. John winced.

"That's Ferguson," he told Couch. "Don't let him get started or we'll be waving bye-bye to the Eshans as they take off."

Ferguson, however, was all business once Couch lowered his window for him.

"Good to see you again, Munch. Sofarelli? Your case, but you'll have to follow our directions while on the tarmac. We're understandably paranoid about cars and people wandering loose around here."

He pointed to Passenger Terminal #1, the large building to their left with its long concourse of gates, three of which were occupied by large white jets bearing the colors and logos of Air India, Alitalia, and AirPlus Comet. Tugs pulling long trains of baggage carts swarmed the Air India 747 while two catering trucks and one lavatory truck serviced the Chilean Airbus.

"I've got uniforms and paramedics at the gate—one of each is female, like you requested. The Eshans are on Turkish Airlines' Flight 2 at Gate 8 on the other side," Ferguson told them. "Your A.D.A. just sent over the warrants; I've got the electronic copies on my computer."

"Has Admad Eshan arrived yet," Couch asked.

"No, but my people will get him to the gate as soon as he does."

"Then let's do it."

Couch followed Ferguson's car through the security gate and along the perimeter road between the gate apron area and the taxiway. When they pulled even with the end of the concourse, Ferguson tapped his brakes then stopped. Through his rear window, they saw him using a hand-held radio.

"Getting clearance from the tower to leave the road," John said. "All ground traffic here is controlled, even us."

Ferguson's left blinker flashed and Couch followed him onto the apron. Ahead of them loomed the only plane on that side of the terminal, a white Airbus A340 bearing the red stylized bird logo of Turkish Airlines. Ferguson drove past it before turning toward the terminal and parking outside a double metal security door with "T1-G8" stenciled on it.

Couch backed in between him and a parked PA Ambulance with its emergency lights flashing. Once outside their car, both detectives reflexively stared at the Airbus' nose some forty feet above them.

"They never seem this big when I'm sitting in them," Couch said.

John nodded.

_Rows of people in a long aluminum tube about to fly over an ocean… most of them for normal reasons—business, family, vacation… we get to deal with the abnormal reasons—sex tourists, perverts fleeing prosecution, mothers handing their children over for violent tribal 'justice'… I should have gone to work for Uncle Andrew and hung drywall… drywall never hurt anyone…._

"A bunch of low-bid parts flying in close formation," John replied. "C'mon—Ferguson's waiting on us."

The SVU detectives followed Ferguson through the door and up a flight of stairs. At the top, Ferguson swiped a keycard through an electronic lock then keyed in a pass code. The door opened to reveal the gate areas for Terminal #1. On their left was Gate #8's counter, where the Turkish Airlines gate agents, two Port Authority uniforms, and two paramedics with gear were standing. One of the gate agents handed a sheet of paper to Ferguson, who glanced at it before handing it to Sofarelli.

"Your people are in business class," Ferguson said, "Row 3, seats A, B, C. The agent tells me the girl's in the right window seat, her mother next to her with the man across the aisle. How do you want to handle this?"

Eight sets of eyes stared at Sofarelli. John mentally ran through how he would deploy the resources in case Couch fumbled his effort.

"What shape is Asma in? Did the flight attendants get us that info?"

The male paramedic, Martinez according to his name tag, nodded.

"She's ambulatory but groggy. The man with her told the gate agent when they boarded that she had taken cold medicine because of allergies."

"Good. I want you and Patton to come with us. Make sure Patton is the only one touching Asma. We'll observe all proprieties for her."

Both paramedics nodded. Couch pointed at Hagen, the male PA officer.

"You wait here for Admad Eshan—that's the father. Your partner—Griffith—will wait at the end of the Jetway and assist if we need it. Munch, you get Nurzai; I'll handle Mrs. Eshan. Ferguson, you're our back-up. We'll arrest and remove the adults and let the paramedics get Asma off the plane. Questions?"

There were no questions. Martinez picked up his gear. Ferguson directed the gate agent to inform the cockpit and chief purser that they were on their way. Munch fell into step by Sofarelli as they walked down the loading bridge to the plane.  
_  
Arresting people in a tight, crowded space is never fun…fill that space with angry people and it's even less fun…. _

"You're planning to cuff a Muslim woman?" he asked.

"She forfeited any cultural sensitivity from me when she broke the law. We do this quick and by the book."

"Sounds good to me."

They rounded the last corner of the Jetway and were at the aircraft door.

_Deep breath… list of charges in mind… attitude in place… let's go…._

Sofarelli led the way through the first-class cabin, Munch on his heels, Ferguson and the paramedics behind. In the business-class cabin, fifty-four people stared at their arrival, but the detectives homed in on the Eshans three rows from the cabin curtain. Nurzai resembled his younger brother, but with a neat goatee. Saira was obscured by a black headscarf, loose blue over-blouse and long skirt, as was the girl slumped in the seat next to her.

"Nurzai Eshan? Saira Eshan? New York Police; you are under arrest. Would you stand up please?"

Couch quickly repeated it in Farsi. Saira jerked in her seat then began to compile. Her brother-in-law only glared at them.

"What? Why? We have legitimate reason to travel—"

Munch reached over and unfastened his seatbelt. Eshan shot to his feet. Before he could speak, Munch reached for his right shoulder with his left hand.

"Nurzai Eshan, you are under arrest for facilitating sex crimes, for aiding and abetting the abduction of a minor—"

Eshan jerked his shoulder away from Munch's hand, which brought his other shoulder forward. John grinned as he grabbed it then used Eshan's momentum to spin him around. A quick snap of his wrist and the cuff encircled Eshan's left arm. He grabbed Eshan's other arm and cuffed it while launching into the Miranda warning.

Across the aisle, Couch was speaking rapid Farsi as he secured Saira Eshan. Ferguson stood at the first row, his attention on the other passengers in case any decided to interfere. John propelled Eshan from his seat towards Ferguson as he finished his recitation.

"Let go of me, you pig of a Jew!" Eshan shouted. "You are filth! Vermin! _Madaretah sag gayeedah_—a dog fucked your mother and she bore you!"

"You're the one pimping your niece," Munch told him, his voice steady, but loud enough to be heard over the curses. "You're the one taking her to be gang-raped by your inbred cousins in Afghanistan. Vermin are heroic compared to you."

_That should dissuade people from leaping to his aid…. _

He marched Eshan past Ferguson and off the plane. Behind him, Sofarelli followed with Saira Eshan. They stopped in the loading bridge where Officer Griffith and one of the gate agents were waiting by the paramedics' gurney. Couch handed Saira Eshan over to the PA officer while Ferguson told the gate agent the plane was free to leave the gate as soon as the paramedics and Asma had deplaned.

"Want me to take Eshan?" Couch asked John.

Munch kept his hand on Eshan's arm. The man had forsaken English and was muttering in his own language as he glared at the detectives.

"Nope," John replied. "We're having too much fun."

Nurzai snarled at him.

"See? Intellectual conversation at its finest."

Next to Eshan, his sister-in-law wept under her scarf, her body shaking as she sobbed.

"What's she saying," Ferguson asked.

"She's afraid her husband will divorce her and send her back to Afghanistan. Without the help of her husband and family, the only ways she can support herself are begging and prostitution. It's the worst thing she can imagine."

"She doesn't know about Bedford Hills," Munch replied. "Here's the paramedics."

Patton came through the door first, Asma leaning against her as she stepped over the threshold. While Patton supported her, Martinez unfastened the gurney's straps and lowered it to chair-height. Patton led the girl over and helped her sit down. Nurzai turned his head away from Asma; her mother only sobbed louder.

"We'd like to take her in," Patton told Sofarelli. "She's aware, but her pulse is slow and her breath smells of vomit. Ask her if she knows what they gave her."

Couch leaned over the girl and spoke with her. Her words came slowly and her body wavered back and forth as she answered his questions. At the last question, she blinked several times then her hand came up to rip the _khimar_ from her hair. She tried to throw it at her uncle, but the weak effort sent the fabric fluttering to the floor by the gurney.

"Asma doesn't know what they gave her," Couch told the paramedics as Patton helped the girl lie down on the gurney. "She tried to throw it up in the airport restroom, but her mother made her drink more of it before boarding. She vows never to be obedient again; that's why she threw her scarf at Eshan."

"Good girl," Munch said

Nurzai turned to him and growled something in Farsi.

"Yeah, I know—my mother's a bitch and I'm her son. Tell me something new. We ready to transport?"

Patton fastened the last strap securing Asma to the gurney. "We're ready."

He pushed it down the loading bridge, Patton beside it observing Asma. Ferguson followed them, his radio at his ear.

_Checking on the situation in the terminal… hope Admad Eshan has arrived…._

Griffith propelled Saira Eshan down the Jetway. Munch grabbed Ehsan's upper arm.

"_Ba man bia!_" he said. "_Ajaleh kon!_"

Eshan took two steps forward then spun around. His gape-mouthed stare showed his shock at a 'pig of a Jew" telling him in Farsi to get moving. Couch's quick guffaw echoed Eshan's surprise.

"My neighbor's Iranian," John explained as he urged Eshan down the Jetway. "He taught me a few useful phrases: hello, thank you, drop your weapon, you should have stayed in your flea-infested dustbowl of a third-world country...."

Couch rattled off an unintelligible string of words.

"Yes, that one."

Eshan twisted around in Munch's grasp.

"You would not last five minutes in my country and I would leave your carcass for the dogs."

John shoved him along after Griffith and Saira Eshan.

"You wouldn't last thirty seconds in Baltimore and I'd leave your name up in red."

The incongruity of Munch's promise kept Ehsan quiet until they reached the terminal. There, they found Admad Eshan fussing over his daughter as Martinez wheeled her to the apron access door. Several dozen travelers watched the action from outside the gate area. Ferguson and four more PA uniforms kept them from coming closer.

The second she saw her husband, Saira wailed his name. Admad Eshan turned in her direction.

"Ungrateful woman," he shouted, "and a dog who thinks he's my brother. What do I sign to make them arrested? I will sign in my own blood if you ask!"

His wife began to scream at him in Farsi. His brother tried to shake loose from John's grip; Couch moved alongside to help, but Munch had no trouble keeping Eshan in check.

"You dishonored our family!" Nurzai Eshan shouted back at his brother. "You dishonored us by running from what is required. You should be where I am. You should be defiled by the touch of whore-pigs, not your Saira. She did the honorable thing—she called me and told me how shameful you are!"

Admad Eshan stormed the short distance from his daughter to his brother. He stopped an arm's length before him.

"Had they asked for me, I would have gone," he told his brother. "My only dishonor is that I waited long before saying 'No! Not my daughter!' You did this only to save your business. Now, you will lose it and you will be in jail."

Eshan tried again to pull free, but Munch dug his thumb into the gap between his arm muscles and hooked it, causing Eshan to wince. John stepped back, forcing Eshan away from his brother as Couch moved in between them. Saira shouted a long sentence that shrieked through the terminal. Admad Eshan turned his head the barest motion to bring her into his view.

"Yes, we give up everything if we don't obey. Aren't our children worth that to you?"

Saira Eshan drew herself up and glared pure venom at her husband then she spat at him. Before he could respond to his wife, Couch addressed Admad Eshan.

"Go with your daughter. We'll handle things here."

"And my son? My younger daughters?" he asked. "Are they safe?"

Couch nodded. John pursed his lips.

_Pretty damned confident about his partner... either that or psychic...._

"Detective Otten is with them. This is Detective Munch. We'll take your wife and brother to our station house for booking. Go with your daughter. She needs you."

Admad Eshan glanced over his shoulder. Asma's face had paled and her eyes and cheeks were wet with tears. Her father muttered something to Couch before returning to her side. Martinez spoke into his radio then he and Patton took Asma and her father to the ambulance. When the access door shut behind them, Saira Eshan's curses changed to sobs. The crowd thinned as the curious decided that the show was over.

Once the Eshans were in patrol cars and they all were headed back to the station house, Munch asked what Admad Eshan had muttered.

"Nothing will be the same," Couch answered, "and he's right. Two weeks ago, he was a businessman, husband and father, a pillar of his mosque and well-respected. Now, all he has left are his children."

"And, to mix a metaphor," John said, "the kindness of strangers in a strange land. I don't envy him at all."

SVU Squadroom  
30 July

Chloe greeted Sofarelli's arrival with an update.

"Nurzai Eshan is in holding," the shift admin told him. "Saira Eshan is in Interview Two with Smoot; she'll keep her company until you're ready. Robbery is using Interrogation; they'll tell us when they're done with it."

Couch checked the scene in Interview One, in which Elliot was standing, his arms folded across his chest. At the table was Fred Tierney and a man in his early thirties, sandy hair, light complexion, wearing a NY Yankees t-shirt. Couch could see the suspect's lips move as he spoke, his attention switching rapidly from Fred at the table to Elliot by the one-way glass. Fred said something and the man pounded the table with his fist. Elliot took a step forward and unfolded his arms while Fred reached out and touched the man briefly on the wrist.

Couch put his curiosity aside and turned back to Chloe.

"What about the kids?" he asked. "I had a message from Judith that everything went well, but no details."

John, who had gone straight to the coffee machine to make himself some tea, chuckled quietly.

_'No details' means Otten doesn't want you to know the details… experience with devious females taught me that one long ago…._

Chloe pointed upstairs to the Children's Interview Room.

"They're with Judith and the caseworker."

"Caseworker? What's ACS have to do with this?"

John carried his mug to Couch's desk, where Chloe and the detective were talking. He perched on the corner of the desk farthest from the cactus garden, then answered Couch's question.

"Maybe the only way to pry them loose from Eshan's religious co-conspirators was to bring Children's Services into the mix?"

Sofarelli shook his head. "No, that's not how it works. My wife's in Child Protection Services; they only handle—oh, shit!"

John peered at him from behind his lenses.

"I hope that's not a command."

"No, it's... it's....damn it, Judith!"

He dashed to the stairs. Chloe and John watched him start climbing them two at a time.

"What did Otten do this time?" John asked.

"She called one of CPS' specialists in to help her translate. I guess Couch knows her."

John took a long sip of his tea.

"My guess is that he's married to her and that we're about to see how our resident Islamic expert handles disobedient women."


	12. Tropical Storm: part three

Riverside Park  
Tennis Courts at W 96th Street  
30 June

Travis Cutter had been missing an hour before the case became Benson's responsibility. The situation began when Travis, white male, four years and two months old, dark brown hair and eyes, wearing denim shorts, a red T-shirt with a black dinosaur design, and black sneakers, wandered from where his parents were playing tennis the RCTA courts in Riverside Park. The boy exited through the only gate without anyone noticing him then vanished.

"I swear, I'd just turned to look at Travis. I'd just looked at him. He was there!"

Amanda Cutter, late twenties and wearing tennis-white shorts and a sleeveless shirt, kept repeating that same refrain. Her husband, Daniel Cutter, held her close and tried to smile at Olivia.

"Mandy's right. Travis always sits by the fence while we play. We bring a bucket of toys to keep him occupied. We've done this every week since April. He's very good at occupying himself; he knows if he plays quietly during our game, we'll visit the dinosaurs at the playground.."

Olivia used her professional smile…

…the one that looks like I care, but doesn't promise anything… I've handled too many of these to guarantee success or even hope….

…as she assured them that everything was being done to find their son.

_That much is true… we've got the area cordoned off—of course, the Two-Four did that before we got here… we're interviewing anyone who might have been in the area when Travis disappeared... dozens of people are searching the park, the riverfront, and the area between here and West End Avenue…._

What changed Travis Cutter's disappearance from a lost child case to a possible stranger abduction was information from Mike Jurgens, a teenager who was waiting for the next court to open up. He repeated his story to Tutuola.

"I was about to turn into the parking lot and I saw a little kid talking with this guy on the river path."

Fin put his pen to his notepad. "Tell me what the kid looked like."

"A boy—I don't know how old, but he was wearing a red shirt and he had brown hair. I only saw him from the back."

"What about the man he was talking to?"

"Not as old as my dad—he's forty-two. Maybe late thirties? He was kinda fat and his hair was all wet like he'd been sweating. He was wearing a NY Yankees t-shirt—the one with the logo in camo, and jeans. He was staring at the kid like he was funny-looking—y'know, like the kid had a weird face or something that made him puke to look at it."

"Did you see the boy go with him?"

"No. I just saw them talking when I drove by. They were over there."

Jurgens pointed past the far end of the parking lot, where the loop from the Henry Hudson Parkway ran closest to the paved path along the Hudson River.

"I didn't pay much attention. Guess I should have."

"Don't worry about it," Fin told him, "you're doing fine now. I got some photos to look at; see if any of them is the man you saw with Travis."

Jurgens nodded. Fin handed him the stack of "local perverts" that a sector car had just brought him; the printout included photos. Jurgens recoiled from touching the stack.

"These guys do little kids? That's sick!"

"We're just making sure Travis isn't with any of these men. You see him?"

Jurgens shuffled through the photos. One caught his attention; he pulled it from the stack and handed it to Tutuola.

"Might be this one. If it isn't him, it looks a lot like him."

Fin noted the name then thanked the young man for his help before heading to Benson. She was by the grandstand outside the tennis court fence talking with Tierney and White.

"May have something," Fin announced. "Jurgens says this looks like the man who was talking with Travis last time anyone saw him."

Olivia took the paper and read it. "Brian Boylston, thirty-seven, address on W 105th Street, paroled from Attica three months ago—"

She looked up at Fin. "—for sodomy with a thirteen-year-old cousin."

"Big age difference there," noted Fin. "If he likes them near-puberty, little kids might not do it for him."

"On the other hand," Tammy said, "when opportunity walks up and says 'Hi,' Boylston might not say, 'No, not my type."

Olivia handed the paper to Fred.

"Fred, you and Tammy check out Boylston. If he smells funny to you, take him back to the house and see why he smells. Fin, if you'll take those sheets and go over where Sergeant Kyle is, he's got another group of walkers and bikers rounded up for us. Don't let word of Boylston get back to the Cutters."

None of the detectives took offense at her reminder of something so basic. The Cutters were holding together very well for people suffering through the worst fear of a parent; no one wanted to tip them into panic. All three left quickly, leaving Benson alone with her concerns.

_Almost two hours since Travis disappeared and a witness puts him in the company of a pedophile... damn—I could use better news than that...._

Upstairs Lounge  
SVU Squadroom  
30 June

Her long-sleeved cotton sweater was tossed over the back of the sofa. That left Hanah Sofarelli in a sleeveless pink shell and an ankle-length tan skirt that mostly hid the fact that she was standing in _hu gul jaseh_, her weight on her left leg, her right shoulder facing her husband as she glared at him.

_One of the ways Hanah shows she's angry... she stands in fighting stance while she tells me off...._

"That's no reason to be mad at me!" she told him.

Had his wife been at home, at the Hudson Street _do jang_, at church or anywhere else, Couch would have greeted her with a grin and a big hug.

_But she's here... she's here because Judith asked her to translate for her... partner or not, she had no call putting my wife in harm's way... and Hanah should have said "No" when Judith asked.…_

"It is, too."

Hanah tilted her head and regarded her husband with raised eyebrows, challenging him to explain.

_I shouldn't have to explain the obvious...._

"Judith had no call asking you to translate for her."

"So, you don't trust me?" his wife shot back. "Is that what you're saying? I walk into situations like this every day with only a clipboard and a can of pepper spray and you don't say a word. This time, I'm with a sergeant, three officers, and your partner and you freak. I guess you don't think much of their abilities—huh?"

"Judith should have cleared this with me first. Partners don't blindside partners."

_And yes, Judith's abilities do bother me... she isn't sleeping; she keeps zoning out... but if I tell you that, you'll start worrying about my safety...._

"I decide what's too dangerous for me," Hanah shot back. "Not you and not your partner—got it?"

She snatched her sweater from the sofa and started down the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

His wife did not answer, but a glance at the clock told him her destination.

_She's heading to Hudson Street for the last class and to work out... the way she's stomping down those stairs, we're going to need a new bag...._

He left the railing to check the one-way glass of the Children's Interview Room, where Hanah and Judith had parked the three Eshan children after they brought them in. Atiqullah, a small-framed ten-year-old in khakis and a white polo shirt, was paging through a picture book, his lips forming the English words as he read. His sisters in their long blue skirts and blouses, their hair and faces screened from Couch's sight by white scarves, worked on a farmyard jigsaw puzzle at the round table in the center of the room.

_They look no worse for wear... before she blew up at me, Hanah said the couple who came to get them left when they saw the uniforms and Judith... but what if they hadn't? What if the mosque had sent more people? Or if the neighbors had supported them? Attitude and a badge can carry you only so far... a shield won't stop a bullet or an angry mob... no way should Judith have risked my wife like that—no way...._

"Things okay?"

The question came from Munch, who climbed the last two stairs to join him after asking it.

"Fine," Couch told him, "just fine."

"So I see. I also saw your wife march past me like a tsunami through Indonesia. She looked just fine, too."

Couch tensed.

_I'm not interested in discussing my problems with you, John… let it lie…._

John jerked his head in the direction of the squadroom.

"Otten left with your wife; she told Chloe she'll be right back. Sgt. Neville says Imam Talal Rahmani is downstairs waiting to pick up Eshan's children. Elliot says to release them if you've got Eshan's permission."

Couch blew out the breath he'd been holding, very grateful that John had veered away from personal matters.

"I got it. Eshan said he'll go to Rahmani's place as soon as Asma is released from the ER."

"Are we transporting him?" John asked. "Making sure no one tracks where he and his family will be tonight? Will they be available at trial if we need them?"

Couch nodded again. "I talked to Rahmani. His group will shelter the Eshans until we're finished with them then settle them in a new city."

"Good. You get the kids; I'll go close the doors by the holding tank so their uncle won't see them when they come downstairs."

After Munch left, Couch explained to the three children where they were going and how their father and sister would join them later; he then led shepherded them down the stairs. They clustered close to him at the bottom so Couch paused to give them time to look around.

_Judith and Hanah brought them up the elevator then straight to the Children's room... they need a chance to look around to make sense of what's happening to them...._

Atiqullah's attention was caught by the flat screens on each desk; Couch answered his technical questions as best he could. Ghazal, four years older than her brother and almost a foot taller, spun about slowly, taking in everything before she fixed her gaze on Officer Taylor talking with Chloe by the coffee machine.

"Everyone works in this one room?" she asked Couch. "There are no curtains separating the women from the men?"

_Hanah would call this a teachable moment…._

"How would we work together if half of us must hide behind a screen?"

She didn't answer, but the way she looked again at Taylor and Chloe told Couch she was thinking hard about the matter.

Ghoty, a year younger than her brother, drifted near to the one-way glass of Interview One. When Sofarelli came to get her, she pointed to the man sitting slumped in a chair.

"Is he a criminal?" she asked.

"No, he is a suspect. We're trying to find out if he committed a crime. If he didn't, we will let him go home."

The young girl kept her attention on the man in the chair. Her scarf hid her expression from Couch, but her voice shook when she asked her next question.

"_Madar_ and _Amoo_ —are they criminals?"

_Yes, your mother and uncle are criminals, but I'll soften the answer a little…._

"They were taking your sister to someplace where she would be hurt. That's a crime here."

"_Madar_ said she had no choice."

Couch squatted down next to her. Had she been American, he would have patted her shoulder, but physical comfort from a man not her close relative was foreign to Ghoty. As it was, she tipped her head down to avoid eye contact.

_She's only trusting me because I speak her language and her father told her she should when he called… so it's not real trust, only obedience…._

"Things here are different from your home town," he told her, "Your father wants to follow the rules here, your mother, and your uncle the customs they learned in Ghazni. I think your father is right because, under our rules, Asma doesn't get hurt."

"Will I see _Madar_ soon?"

"Your father will arrange that. We have to go now."

_It's a cop-out answer, but I don't have the heart to say "No" or "Yes, but not until her trial"…._

Imam Rahmani had brought his wife, a matronly woman in a floral cotton skirt and long-sleeved shirt, and his two children, a girl close to Ghoty's age and a boy Ghazal's age. Both children wore jeans and plain t-shirts. Couch made the introductions them made sure that an unmarked car would be watching the Rahmanis' residence to keep the Eshans safe from reprisals. By the time he had finished, all five children were chatting together as though long-time friends and Mrs. Rahmani had Ghoty's hand clasped firmly in hers.

Couch watched them depart through the main entrance and remembered.

_One step outside the wire fence surrounding the company compound and I was on Saudi soil; I had to follow their rules, their customs… at first, it was a shock to see my mother cover herself to go visit local friends, to see her walk behind Mr. Watkins if he and his wife went with her, to have someone chastise me for talking to a female friend in public, but we had to follow Saudi customs on Saudi soil… just like the Eshans have to follow our customs her and not their local ones… it's the inability to adapt that makes trouble… like it was for me at Dharan, the burden is on them to change, not us…._

He said a silent prayer that Admad Eshan and his children would weather the changes facing them before returning to his own job of getting confessions from Saira and Nurzai Eshan.

Outside Interview One  
30 June

Stabler and Tierney, both in shirtsleeves, both frowning slightly, stared through the one-way glass at the suspect in Travis Cutter's disappearance. Fred had brought Brian Boylston in; Tammy had stayed at the park to assist Olivia with the canvassing for witnesses.

From the corner of his eye, Stabler saw Couch lead the Eshan children from the squadroom.

_Glad that one's going well... although Hanah didn't look too happy when she left... guess Couch will get the couch tonight._...

His snort of laughter caught Fred's attention.

"What?"

Stabler waved off the question.

"Nothing. You getting the same vibe I'm getting from Boylston?"

Inside, Brian Boylston stood facing them, his hands gripping the chair back as though afraid he'd float away without it. His gaze darted from window to file cabinets to the door and his breath came so fast, he was almost panting. Although he had showered and changed before Tierney and White picked him up, he had sweat through his T-shirt and his hair was damp and disarrayed from his nervous way of running his fingers through it.

"He's scared, but not of us," Tierney said.

"Yeah, that's what I got. Someone else has him spooked. Did his story change any from when you picked him up?"

"No," Fred replied. "He told us he was walking down the river path like he does every evening and he didn't talk to anyone, especially not a small boy. You heard him repeat that."

"Yeah," Stabler repeated, "over and over and it doesn't make sense. If Boylston thinks we picked him up only for being a paroled pedophile, he should be angry, not scared shitless. If he did talk to Travis, or did worse, he'd be faking anger, pretending to be pissed at us."

He placed his finger on the glass right over Boylston's heart.

"Something's not right here."

Riverside Park  
Near the Cherry Walk tunnel under the Henry Hudson Parkway  
30 June

A uniform found him five blocks north of the tennis courts where the retaining wall runs along the loop leading to the parking lots. Drivers exiting from the parkway would have had trouble spotting him, their attention focused on negotiating the curve and blocking the light from the setting sun, not the brief sight of red and denim blue crumpled twenty feet from the edge of the pavement.

"The M.E. been called?" Benson asked.

It was an obvious question, but the brain latches on to the obvious as a protection from unwanted reality…

_… and finding Travis Cutter dead is a reality no one wanted…._

Jim Kyle, the sergeant from the Two-Four nodded.

"And CSU," he said. "As soon as Hacker reported finding the body."

Benson stepped forward and examined the scene.

_Twice my height of hewed stone retaining wall, straight down to ground littered with rock, not much ground cover—just enough to obscure a small boy…._

She knelt by the body.

_Looks like a fall to me… no signs of injuries inconsistent with a fall from a height… no marks visible around his wrists or throat… the M.E. will tell for certain… if it weren't for the bit of blood above his right ear, that tiny abrasion from the rock he landed on, I'd say he was asleep…._

Olivia heard a car pull up behind her. A few seconds later, Tammy knelt beside her.

"Jeez," she said, "exactly what we didn't want to happen. Damn."

She repeated Olivia's visual exam of the scene.

"He must have been walking the top of the wall and fell. Seems like a little kid thing to do."

Olivia nodded. "No parent with him to say it was dangerous. I don't see how he could have resisted."

"You okay?" Tammy asked, her voice too low for anyone else to hear.

"No," Olivia answered, "but I'll be fine. Can you take charge here? I'm going to notify the parents."

Tammy drew in a breath. Olivia spoke before she could say anything.

"I owe you one for thinking about offering to take my place."

Tammy stood up and dusted off her knees.

"It's the crappiest part of the job. I'll hold the fort and call you when the M.E. and CSU arrive. Want me to contact Elliot and Cragen?"

SVU Squadroom  
30 June

The ring of his cellphone brought Elliot back to his desk. He answered then listened to Olivia's recitation of the facts.

"Shit… I'm sorry it turned out this way… yeah, these things happen… you call Cap? Still voicemail? Someone must have locked them in and thrown away the key… No, Couch and Judith are doing one Eshan at a time; John's observing… send Tammy back as soon as you can and Fin when you're finished with him… something's not right with Boylston and I want to find it out before we cut him loose…."

The flat tone of Olivia's side of the conversation, obvious even through his cell phone, told him how hard the boy's death had hit her. He could picture her riding the front seat of an RMP back to the parents, her lips compressed until they cramped, holding her disappointment and sorrow inside so she could do her job.

_All that effort… all the hopes and prayers… shit…._

"You okay?" he asked.

She brushed off his concern with a "I'll call in before I leave here" then she hung up. The abruptness of her answer set his teeth on edge.

_Yeah, you got a rough case… no need to dump on me…._

Stabler rolled his head and listened to the cartilage crackle and pop.

_Not that things are easy here… working my own cases and playing C.O…. if I wanted to run things, I'd have taken the sergeant's exam…._

He returned to where Fred was observing Boylston and gave him the bad news. Fred's face and shoulders sagged as the weight of perceived failure settled on him. Elliot clasped his upper arm in a gesture of comradely comfort then he pointed at Boylston.

"We tried. Now, let's find out what he knows about why Travis ran off."

He let Fred work this round solo so he could observe. Tierney wasted no time on pleasantries. He slammed the door shut behind him, an action that made the already jumpy suspect bolt upright in his chair. Fred then stood by that chair and leaned over until his face was even with Boylston's, their noses only inches apart.

"We found Travis Cutter dead."

Boylston scooted his chair back so fast he nearly tipped over.

"No—no, that's not true. You're lying. This is just another one of their tricks. Even if you aren't lying, I didn't do nothing to that kid. I didn't talk to him, I didn't touch him. I didn't talk to the other kids and I didn't talk to this one. You're just trying to get me sent back again, but I'm not—I didn't—no way!"

Fred stayed right in his face.

"No way what, Brian?"

Boylston leaned back and licked his lips nervously.

"No way I talked to that kid. I'm not supposed to talk to kids; that's part of my parole agreement—no kids, not even family. I talk to one, they send me back."

Fred straightened up, giving Boylston some space while staying well inside his personal perimeter. Elliot smiled in approval of the tactic.

_Ease up, but only a little… if Boylston is hung up on the word "talk", try another one…._

"Okay, you didn't talk to him. Did you see Travis Cutter near the tennis courts today?"

Boylston ran both hands through his hair. Their trembling was obvious even from Elliot's position.

"If you're going to trap me for just seeing a kid, I can't win. There's kids everywhere."

Elliot heard Tierney's sigh through the speaker.

"We're not trying to trap you, Brian. We're trying find out how Travis Cutter died. If you had nothing to do with him or his death, then you're safe—I promise."

Elliot held his breath while Boylston stared at Tierney, weighing his offer.

"Okay," he said. "I saw the kid. He was alive when I saw him."

"What was he doing?"

"He was walking along the path all by himself, just like the other ones."

"Did you say anything to him?"

Boylston slammed his fist against the table.

"I keep telling you—I didn't talk to him. I'm not allowed to talk to him. I go back if I talk to him. I don't care what you try—I'm not talking to no kids!"

Tierney held his hands up, open in a gesture of surrender.

"I believe you. But, did Travis say anything to you?"

Boylston wet his lips again. His gaze flicked from Tierney to the window and back again. Elliot held his breath as he urged Boylston to give it up.

"The kid—yeah, he talked to me, but I didn't answer. It's not talking if I don't say something back—it's isn't!"

Fred grabbed a chair, turned it around and straddled it.

_Friendly position that puts the interrogator on the suspect's level... engages his trust... the friendliness rewards one admission and solicits another.... it sounded so hokey in the classroom, but it does work...._

"Now we're getting somewhere. Okay, Brian, I know you didn't talk to Travis so tell me—what did he say to you?"

Fred's show of support brought a sigh of relief from his suspect. He ran one hand through his hair, without trembling this time, and answered without further hesitation.

"The kid asked if I knew where the dinosaurs were. He wanted to see them."

"And you said…nothing?"

"Damn right I said nothing. I just side-stepped the little fucker and got the hell out of there. You guys keep trying to trick me but you're wasting your time."

"My apologies," Tierney said. "What happened next?"

"I guess the kid went looking for dinosaurs. I don't know. Like I said, I got the hell out of there."

Fred nodded. On his side of the glass, Elliot matched the motion.

_Great... you got him talking... now, nail down why he didn't report the kid missing...._

"On your way back from your walk, did you see any signs that police were searching the park for a missing child?"

"Yeah, I saw them beating the bushes, but so what? It's bad enough you're trying to trap me—I'm not walking up to some cop and telling him some kid tried to make me violate parole. There's laws against making me incriminate myself."

Elliot entered the interview room. He caught Fred's gaze and, with a raised eyebrow and a tip of his head, asked permission to take over, permission Fred gave by stepping back from the suspect.

"Mr. Boylston," Elliot said, knowing the formal address would signal a change in topic and authority, "we aren't trying to send you back to Attica. As long as you behave, I don't care what you do."

_That's a lie... I care what every cousin-raping pervert does... but Travis Cutter is my concern now...._

He sat down across from Boylston and clasped his hands in front of him.

"We only want to know how and why Travis Cutter died, but…"

Elliot curved his lips up just slightly so he would appear to be on the man's side.

"…but, if someone is trying to trap you, we need to know who that person is."

Boylston stiffened. His narrowed eyes searched Elliot's face for signs of insincerity. Elliot held still under the pressure, but behind his pleasant expression, he was watching Boylston with the same intensity.

Finally, after his hands made one more trip through his hair, he answered.

"Simma Woolridge. She's the caseworker my cousin has. She's trying to trap me and send me back. She hates me."

Hallway outside the SVU squadroom  
30 June

Elliot asked Officer Taylor to watch Boylston then he and Fred called John, Judith, and Couch together for a quick conference. There was some jostling as they gathered around him; Couch avoided Judith, Judith avoided both him and John, Couch edged away from John as they both tried to be on the same side of Fred. Elliot crossed his arms and glared at the lot of them until they found a place and stood still in it.

_I thought we learned to line up in kindergarten…._

"Any on you ever hear anything about CPS using children in a sting against convicted pedophiles?"

Three expressions of disbelief answered his question.

_Shit... just what we need tonight… another case… better call Cap—or his voicemail... must be something damned important to keep him incommunicado for entire shift...._

Chambers Tavern  
30 June

Its name came from the street outside, not from the thick oak wainscoting and leather upholstery nor the judges, lawyers, and politicos drinking inside. Cragen glanced around to see if he recognized anyone, but Felix bustled him to a corner booth so fast that the people blurred passed him. The others in their party, Deputy Chief Francis Brynes, Captain Heidi Petit, and Inspector John Ward slid into the booth on either side of him and Inspector Lofslici.

"Bristol," Lofslici called out, "a bottle of your best Irish and water!"

The waiter, a tall, bone-thin man with eyebrows like white bat-wings, swooped away to fill the order.

"Felix, I've seen you drink," Heidi said. "You wouldn't know good Irish if it hit you with a shillelagh."

"Doesn't matter," Lofslici responded. "We're celebrating and the Captains Endowment Fund is paying. After all, every NYPD labor organization has spent years trying to get the city to listen to reason—"

"Twenty-eight months is not 'years,'" she objected.

"It's more than months, less than decades. Anyway, I'm on a roll, so shut up and listen—where was I?"

Frannie Byrnes pointed a finger at Felix.

"You were saying that First Deputy Commissioner J. Edwards Tillman, of the Mayor's Office of Labor Relations, has been a thorn in all our paws for the last eight of those twenty-eight months."

"Diplomatically put, Frannie," Ward told him. "That asshole—don't shake your head at me, Heidi—you've called him worse. That asshole has personally obstructed every concrete proposal we've made—"

"—after sounding so conciliatory and pro-cop when he joined the Mayor's team," Heidi joined in. "No one could figure out why the change—"

"—until Donnie gets drafted to the cause," Felix stated. "Without breaking a sweat, he hands us the solution to our problem and the logjam breaks, the doors swing open, and a new contract is in our grasp!"

Cragen felt his cheeks warm at the fulsome praise.

"All I did," he said, "was point out that Tillman had to be upset by what cops were saying about him on the contract discussion website."

"You mean ," Ward noted, "'the forum for NYPD officers of all ranks to express their concern over the lack of meaningful employment agreements with the City of New York.'"

Everyone laughed at the official description of what actually was an unmoderated spewfest of insults, curses, and vituperation that expressed everyone's frustration at the lack of contracts. J. Edwards Tillman, a.k.a. Jackass Backwards Killhim, was the most frequent target of their wrath.

"Like I said," Cragen continued, "it was the personal attacks, especially after his granddaughter did an on-line search to show her classmates how important her grandfather was and the first hits were from that site."

All four had the decency to wince at the thought of Amanda Tillman, age eight, innocently showing her friends what the citizens of New York City thought of her grandpa. Cragen shook his head at the obviousness of Tillman's reason for blocking negotiations.

_The bargaining teams were so bent on getting their desired results that they forgot they were dealing with real people with real feelings… once we closed that site to outsiders—especially young children—and got some of the posters to apologize to Tillman, his ruffled feathers calmed down and he started working with us again…._

Bristol returned to place a footed, tulip-shaped glass before each of the celebrants. In front of Lofslici, he also set a bottle of Midleton Very Rare Irish Whiskey and a brushed aluminum seltzer siphon. Felix splashed whiskey into four of the glasses then added water to it from the siphon before filing Cragen's glass from the siphon.

He raised his glass, a move followed by the other three.

"To Captain Donald Cragen, solver of problems, soother of angry negotiators, and the reason we'll have a settled contract for our people!"

A wide smile brightened Don's face at the toast and at the good will directed at him.

_Feels good…can't say I mind, but I owe most of this to Andrew Beale…he's the one who was sitting one table over from Tillman and his wife at Breslau… he overheard Tillman swearing he'd never give us anything after what Amanda saw on-line… he gave me the info in the hope it would be useful… boy, was it useful… it's great to have a friend like Andrew…._


	13. Tropical Storm: part four

A reminder: this is an Alternate Universe that splits off after RAW; there are no eco-terrorists, fill-in partners, time in Computer Crimes, half-brothers, murderous nephews/step-sons, signed divorce papers, etc.

John Munch knows that Versailles, Kentucky is pronounced "Ver SALES."

McMullen's Tavern  
1 July

_One forty-seven a.m and I'm sitting in a cop bar... how many times do I have to do this before I figure out that cop bars are pathetic places to be? Doesn't matter whether I own the place or I'm merely renting a stool for a while, there has to be somewhere else I should be... if I only could find that place—hey, there's Elliot... another person who really should be somewhere else...._

John watched Elliot survey the scene inside McMullen's. When their gazes connected, the older man nodded, a sign that company would be welcome.

"Bourbon tonight?" Elliot asked as he slid into the booth.

John raised his glass to eye-level and studied the liquid within.

"Woodford Reserve. Made in Versailles, Kentucky, where selling it is completely prohibited. All great bourbon is made in dry counties by repressed Christian fundamentalists—proof that the Man Upstairs has a wicked sense of irony."

He sipped from his glass and savored the taste. Elliot pointed at John's glass then signaled for one just like it.

"Where's everyone?" he asked.

"Good question. They're not here; maybe they went home. They sometimes do that."

The barmaid put a rocks glass half-filled with amber liquid before Elliot. He raised it in salute to Munch then drank from it.

"S'good. You served this at your place?"

_Please tell me you're only making conversation… I'm not interested in an historical inquisition tonight…._

"Wasn't much call for quality liquor at the Waterfront. Cops may be big drinkers, but they like their drinks cheap."

Elliot responded with a lopsided grin.

"Cheap suits our paychecks."

They both drank in amiable silence, their gazes and thoughts fixed elsewhere. After a few minutes, John began to wonder why Elliot had joined him.

_Guy's secure enough to sit by himself… not that sitting alone to drink is a good thing—I'm living proof of that_….

Elliot broke the silence first.

"Any idea yet what's got into Fin?"

"Wish I knew."

_And, given my blow-up today, I'm not likely to ever find out…._

"What about Olivia?" John asked in turn. "She talking to you yet?"

Elliot frowned at his drink.

"I'd take it all back, but she won't give me a chance."

He raised his glass in mock salute.

"To partners."

John copied the motion.

"Any plans for tonight?" Elliot asked.

John swallowed slowly, using the time to consider the 'why' of the question.

_I'm here because the alternatives are the squad room and the humble Munch abode… Elliot must be here for the same reason… what is it—three, four months since Kathy kicked him out? That's long enough for the shock to wear off and reality to set in…._

He took a hard look at the younger man. Elliot's arms were resting on the table, hands cupped about his glass. His body leaned slightly forward, weight on his elbows—not the posture drummed into him at Parris Island. It was the slump of a man in a life without meaning.

_You lost your wife, your family, and now your partner… life as a solo act... don't look to me for help... I don't have answers ... I'm here because I'm ducking the same questions... so let's avoid it all and get surreal...._

John leaned forward and parted his lips, moistening them with the tip of his tongue, then he batted his lashes at Elliot.

"Looking for a good time?"

He expected a shower of spit and bourbon, but Elliot pressed his lips together in time. His nostrils flared from the sting of diverted bourbon as he coughed and gasped for air. Seconds passed before he could fill his lungs then he expelled that air back at John in expletives describing his bastard ancestry and the body parts that he would break as soon as he dragged John's sorry ass outside.

John raised a hand to beckon the bartender.

"Hey, Sid—my friend's mouth needs another round and a bar of soap."

The cursing petered out, replaced by a wide grin and a throaty chuckle.

"Jeez, John—give a man some warning. I almost died from that."

"I know the Heimlich Maneuver."

"I damn near needed it—not that I'll let you anywhere near me."

John nodded his thanks to the server who brought fresh drinks then took a sip of his. While Elliot followed suit, John watched the good humor fade from his face.

_I liked you better married... I got vicarious comfort and security from watching you be the loving husband and caring father... never told you, but the universe went off-balance when you couldn't juggle your life and job any more... someone should tell you that your family needs you just as much—no, more than the vics do... there's fifteen other detectives for the victims... for Kathy and your kids, there's only you...._

"Since you don't lust after my body," John said. "I'll have to let one of the fine women here take me home for a bout of existential philosophy and gymnastic sex."

The corner of Elliot's mouth twitched upward.

"Pole dancing with you as the pole?"

Munch peered at him over his lenses.

"Is that an aspersion against my physique or jealousy on your part?"

"If it really happens, then—hell, I'd be jealous. I mean...."

Elliot paused, mouth open and his gaze quickly shifting away as though the idea of Munch mating was too ridiculous to speak aloud.

_You can't believe that I might get laid... I wish... but if you really believe it, then maybe I can get through to you...._

John gave his glass a twist that swirled the liquid inside.

"You're wondering," he asked, "if the stories about life after divorce are true?"

"Close enough," Elliot answered. "You've been through it before…"

John's dry chuckle cut off Elliot's words.

"…and before and before and before. You're thinking, 'This must a snap for him.'"

John snapped his fingers. Elliot blinked at the sound then grinned sheepishly.

"I know it's not a snap, John. I'm learning that every day. I was hoping you could…."

Elliot picked up his glass and stared into it. John waited as he gathered his thoughts.

"…if maybe you had some ideas about how to move on."

When Elliot looked up, his gaze focused not on John, but at some place over his shoulder. His eyes were clouded and his jaw tensed enough to shatter teeth.

_Biting the bullet, I guess… instead of fighting to keep what is valuable, you're running away… someone should kick you in the balls all the way back to your family… and, since you came to me, I guess I get to do it… damn you, Fin—you should be here… no way Elliot would open up in front of two of us….._

John spent a few moments staring into his own glass, sorting through and rejecting several plans of attack.

_Best bet is to lure him off-track then smack him with the truth… I've always liked that technique and I know one bait that never fails…._

He drew himself up and faked the smile of a confident man.

"So, you want to know what the thinking man does when he finds himself free of entanglements?"

The frown that creased Elliot's face warned John that 'entanglements' was the wrong word to use for his wife and children.

_That's a good sign…._

"It's very simple. The thinking man has fantastic sex."

Elliot's posture stiffened.

_I though that might get your attention…._

"Elliot, every man has a list of fantasies, things he dreams of doing if only the opportunity presents itself. Sex in a public place, sex with a forbidden woman, sex in a position not achievable in a double bed with your kids sleeping in the next room—you know exactly what I mean."

Elliot nodded his agreement.

_Thought you might... sex as bait works every time...._

"However, my list isn't made up of things I want to do. It's made up of things I have done. It's my 'fantasies fulfilled' list."

He ticked the items off on his fingers, speaking slowly and distinctly, giving Elliot time to envision each item in explicit detail.

"Sex with fiery-eyed tempestuous women, sex with bohemian artistic women, sex with professional businesswomen whose scruples and inhibitions peeled off as easily as their designer suits, sex with barmaids whose breasts could smother a man in mid-nuzzle, sex in hallways, sex on desks, sex on gurneys, sex in dorm rooms, sex in offices, sex at Fort McHenry—our orgasms heightened by the fear of discovery by roving park rangers, sex on rugs by blazing fireplaces, sex in hot tubs on a winter's night, sex on summer lawns, sex on sofas and chaise lounges and beach blankets, sex on ski lifts—"

Elliot's eyebrows shot up.

_You've swallowed the bait and the hook's sunk deep...._

"Technically," John admitted, "that one fails the Bill Clinton test of what 'is' is, but I assure you—it definitely was worth the exposure. Now, where was I? Oh, yes—sex, the stuff of which dreams are made, all experienced by me and stored right up here…"

John tapped his forehead.

"…memories of orgiastic pleasures that go beyond your wildest dreams. Want to know the biggest thing about all that non-connubial bliss?"

He formed his lips into a conspiratorial smirk and leaned forward. Elliot's expectant grin showed he was ready for whatever orgasmic secrets were coming his way.

_Now, to sink the gaff…._

"Not one of those memories," John whispered, "will ever kick the winning goal or bring in the winning run."

Elliot jerked back as he realized he'd been had. Munch pinned him with a glare straight through his lenses and dug the gaff in deeper.

"They won't be valedictorian in high school nor will they graduate with honors from college. They won't wave from the stage at me as they get their diplomas."

_Remember, this is for Elliot's benefit… don't get emotional…._

"I won't walk them down the aisle at their weddings nor will they ever hand me my newborn grandchild and tell me that he has my eyes."

John swallowed hard to clear his throat.

_I'm supposed to be persuading Elliot to go home… I am not baring my soul…._

"After a long day, those memories don't greet me with loving words. They don't cuddle up next to me at night with their head on my shoulder. They don't chase my nightmares away nor do they wrap their arms around me and comfort me at the end of a hellish case."

_Don't start weeping, damn it—don't…._

"And, when I reach the point that I can't walk on my own, not one of those memories will take my arm and let me lean on them. They won't hold my hand as I pass and they won't say _Kaddish_ for me."

He had planned to peer over his lenses at Elliot and speak the perfect punch line, a pithy phrase to drive the lesson home. Instead, John stared at the condensation rings on the table and listened to his voice quaver.

"For the love of all you hold dear, keep trying with Kathy. Don't do what I did. Don't be where I am. My life is not the life I wanted—it's not even close."

A shift in air pressure and the creak of weight on the table top signaled Elliot's leaning closer to him.

"Why do you care?" the younger man asked.

_Why? Because my misery doesn't love the company of friends and brothers… I need someone, somewhere to be happy… to know that there is hope…._

"Do you know," he asked as he raised his head and met Elliot's gaze, "how many happily married detectives I've known?"

Elliot shook his head. Munch mentally ran through the list of partners, fellow murder police and SVU detectives with whom he had worked.

"Pembleton and you. Every one else was single, got dumped, or was widowed and never remarried. You don't know how much it anchored me to see your kids safe and loved—all of them so proud of you—and to see Kathy smiling at you like no one else in the world mattered to her."

_It's what makes you Elliot Stabler and not some other guy...._

Elliot's eyes narrowed.

"Maybe I don't want to be your perfect ideal of a husband and father."

"Maybe I don't want to be your divorce guru. Ever think about that?"

The two men stared at one another, both trying to gain dominance, Elliot denying that John could be right and John urging Elliot to see the wisdom in his words. Without breaking the stare, John tried one last stab.

"I never wanted four divorces," he said. "I went into each marriage thinking this time, I'd got it right. Now, it's too late for me."

Elliot held still, but his eyes lost their pinpoint focus on John.

"You're saying it's not too late for me… that I'd be better off fixing my marriage instead of moving on…."

The pensive tone in his voice caught John's tongue before he formed an answer.

_He's not questioning the idea; he's considering it... thinking about it... go on, Elliot... accept it... put one small part of the universe back on track... at least try...._

"I don't think Kathy will go for it. We tried marriage counseling."

"With a priest or with a real person?"

John's hand shot out palm forward, warding off the anger so quickly darkening Elliot's face.

"Bad choice of words, my friend. I meant to say, 'A priest or a psychologist experienced with police marital problems.' Being on the job does give the situation its own special pitfalls."

He watched as the angry glare in Elliot's eyes softened in acceptance of his apology.

"Our parish priest," Elliot replied. "Kathy didn't want a departmental shrink; she thought he'd take my side."

"You might try a female one..."

_...and we both know who'd be perfect, assuming you're willing to face her again... I certainly am not.... too much truth is bad for my self-esteem...._

"...how about Audrey Jackson?"

Elliot's lip twisted in distaste then he swallowed hard.

"Yeah—she'd be a good choice. Kathy and her, the two of them slicing me up."

John pinned him with another hard, straight stare.

"If the three of you put the pieces back together correctly, it will be worth it. If it doesn't work, you can move on knowing that you gave it your best shot."

"What you're saying is there's no shame in failing—only in failing to try."

John's wry smile matched Elliot's.

"Yeah. Something like that."

He watched Elliot mull over the idea, watched the younger man's lips press together. His jaw flexed as though he were chewing the concept and tasting its possibilities. Finally, Elliot's head jerked up and his gaze met John's.

"I'll run it past Kathy; see what she says. Okay?"

"Sounds good."

He raised his glass to Elliot in salute then treated himself to a long, delicious sip.

_Damn… I can't believe it worked… hope the rest of it goes well… time to change the subject and lighten things up_….

"You mentioned your parish priest. I once went undercover as a priest."

This time, Elliot's bourbon did spray the front of John's shirt. While Elliot coughed and sputtered, John grabbed a cocktail napkin.

"Back in Charm City," he said as he dabbed at his tie. "The killer was targeting priests so they put all of us in clerical collars and set us out as bait. Do you know that most Catholics can't tell the difference between Latin and Hebrew?"

Elliot put his empty glass down and gave John the once-over.

"Want a ride home before the stories get taller or we get more maudlin?"

John stared down his nose at Elliot.

"Jews don't get maudlin; that's an Irish emotion."

"Fine. Want a ride home before we get more Irish?"

Munch rose to his feet and bowed in Elliot's direction.

"I thought you'd never offer."

He waved off Elliot's offer to pay the tab then the two of them made their way down the block to Elliot's Jeep, where John paused with his hand on the passenger door.

"_Troierik_."

"Huh?"

"It's Yiddish," John explained. "Means 'mournful, sad, sorrowful.' That's what we Jews get after enough good bourbon—troierik."

Elliot's grin spread slow but wide across his face.

"Troierik. It sounds more cheerful than maudlin does. I'll have to remember it."

Hallway outside Part 15  
New York Supreme Court  
1 July

The usual courthouse bustle filled the hallway: the sharp click of high heels on tile, the deeper slap of rubber and leather wingtips, the chime of the elevator, the murmur of lawyers advising clients, clients griping to attorneys, other interested parties—witnesses, family, friends—making small talk.

Ed Green slouched on the wooden bench he and Joe had grabbed the second they arrived. A matching bench to his left also held two people, one of whom was a woman: Caucasian, late twenties, bushy light brown hair cut shoulder-length, wearing a black suit and mauve blouse. She was discussing the contents of a folder held by a black male, same age, close-cropped hair; his gray suit, pale blue shirt, striped tie and black wingtips marked him also as a lawyer.

_Must be public defenders... clothes aren't expensive enough for them to be associates...._

He sipped his coffee and wished he were more horizontal and more comfortable. Between him and the other bench, his partner blew into his foam cup. Fontana's sartorial choice for the day was a medium blue suit worn over a bright yellow Egyptian cotton shirt matched with a gold silk tie and pocket square..

"I get sleepy on the stand," Ed said, "I'm going to look at you. You damn near glow in the dark."

"Late night?" Joe asked.

"No, just didn't sleep well. You?"

"Like a rock—out the second my head hit the pillow."

"Nothing but you and dreams of Detective Otten, huh?"

Joe drew back from him and frowned.

"I didn't dream at all. Like I said, I was out like a light."

"Whatever, bro. How goes it with Judith, anyway? You seen her recently?"

Fontana smiled wistfully as he shook his head.

"No. I'm thinking about my next move, reconnoitering the terrain, so to speak."

"Reconnoitering? What terrain?" Green asked.

"Otten terrain, specifically 734 Westheimer Street in Brooklyn. Judith owns a lovely Craftsman bungalow, house and lawn very well-maintained. I'll bet she does much of it herself; it's obvious no landscape company ever touched those…."

Movement to his left drew Ed's attention from his partner's praise of the Otten homestead. The male lawyer had bolted upright and was staring at Fontana with narrow-eyed wariness. Next to him, the woman was craning her neck around him to peer at the two detectives.

_Don't know what caught your attention… I'm only listening to be polite…._

"…and whoever extended the back roof line on the second story addition did an excellent job…."

The woman leaned close to the man and whispered in his ear.

_Whatever she just said, that guy didn't like it at all…._

"…I considered peeking in the windows, but that would be impolite, so I settled for admiring it from the street. After that, I drove by her parents' townhouse in Washington Heights—y'know, I've been to a …."

The folder hit the floor as the young man jumped to his feet and glared across Green at Fontana.

"…about four months ago. It was a fund-raiser for…."

A court officer stuck his head around the corner. His call of "Otten, got your client here!" distracted the attorney. Ed watched as he wavered between following the officer and confronting Fontana.

"…since it really is a good cause, I wrote out a generous…."

The matter was decided by the young woman, who bent down to get the dropped folder then said, "Deal with it later. Judge Bradley hates it when we're late."

She headed down the hall, followed by the young man, who paused at the corner to glare one more time at Fontana.

Ed nudged his partner.

"You notice any of that?"

Joe glanced around the hall.

"Notice what?"

"Nothing," Ed told him. "Don't worry about it. You were saying…?"

SVU Squadroom  
1 July

The sixteen detectives were scattered around the squadroom waiting for Cragen's arrival. Fin, Elliot, and Couch were discussing the contract rumors with some of Howie's shift. The rest of Elliot's shift was at the back of the room discussing vacation plans.

"Mary and the kids left for her parents in Kissimmee last Saturday," Howie said. "I'm flying down the evening of the third then we'll drive back."

"You should rethink those plans," John told him. "July in central Florida closely resembles the Christian description of Hell. Only things you guys left out were high entrance fees and large cheerful rodents wearing red shorts."

The whistled strains of "It's a Small World" floated over from where Fred was filling his mug with coffee.

"And that, too." John said with a wince.

"What about you, John?" Olivia asked. "You have plans to visit your uncle?"

"Not until October this year, but I did get the Fourth off."

His remark switched the topic to Independence Day plans, which uncovered the fact that Otten, Benson, Tierney, and White would be working the evening shift on the Fourth.

"More women here than men," Olivia noted. "Wow—that'll be a first."

The male detectives gave Fred a barrage of catcalls and fake sympathy. He shrugged it off with a grin.

"You're just jealous of me and Freddie's Angels."

Tammy slugged him in the arm while everyone laughed at his joke and her reaction.

"Why aren't you taking the holiday off?" Howie asked Judith. "You've got seniority."

"We're throwing a birthday party for my mother on the tenth," Judith replied. "I'm taking that day instead."

Further discussion was ended by the arrival of Captain Cragen in full uniform.

"Sorry I'm late. Meeting at One P.P. Let's get started."

Howie led off then Elliot began the update on his shift's cases.

"Otten and Sofarelli closed the Eshan case last night. Nurzai Eshan and Saira Eshan were arranged this morning. The Dykeman case is still hanging fire—"

"And we all know what to do with a weapon in that condition," Tammy called out. "Stay far away from it!"

Almost everyone laughed, but the twin disgusted looks from the case's detectives prompted Tammy to mouth "Sorry" at them.

"John and I should finish checking our leads from the Stranahan canvass tonight. You all know about the missing child case Olivia and Fin caught last night. The M.E. promised a report this evening, but the Cutter boy's death looks like an accident."

Elliot glanced at Cragen. He was facing the assembled detectives and staff, but his eyes were focused on something held by his pants leg in his right hand. Elliot shifted his weight on his feet just enough to see what was more important to his C.O. than a dead child.

_His cell phone… damn it, Cap—what does it take to get your attention?_

"Last thing from me: have any of you heard of Child Protective Services using small children to entice paroled pedophiles?"

He drew in a breath and held it while the eight detectives on Howie's shift shook their heads. The distinctly queasy expressions on their faces matched those he'd seen the night before; even Cragen frowned at the idea.

"That's what I needed."

Elliot caught Fred's attention and the detective nodded.

_Looks like you and Tammy have a case...._

He then took a step back and gestured toward Cragen.

"Cap?"

Cragen cleared his throat as he slid his cell phone into his jacket pocket.

"The rumors you're hearing about a break in the contract logjam are true. An official release to that effect will be sent to the media in time for the eleven o'clock news. Today's negotiations went significantly definitely in our favor, so that's also good."

He waited for those listening to stop commenting on the welcome news.

"I know this is taking a lot of my time, but it's important—not just to you, but the entire department."

Elliot waited, but the words of appreciation that he expected to follow never came. Cragen merely wished Howie's shift a good evening then turned to enter his office.

_Last month, you'd have said something about us working well without supervision… something about Travis Cutter… you'd have made sure Olivia was holding up okay… now, you're acting like the kind of C.O. every cop hates… one that doesn't give a damn about his people…._

He spun on his heel to follow Cragen into his office, grabbing hold of the closing door before it latched shut.

"Sir," he said, "got a minute?"

Cragen was easing the sleeve of his uniform jacket over his cast on his wrist.

"One minute. What do you need?"

Elliot eased the door shut behind him and walked to the front of Cragen's desk, standing behind same battered chair he had sat in when he and Cragen had faced Chief Sullivan.

_I don't ever want things between Cap and me to reach that point…but each day seems to get closer to it…._

"Liv was primary with Fin on that missing child case last night," he said. "She ran the search, the finding of his body, the notification—all of it on her own."

Cragen hung his jacket on a hanger on his coat rack then loosened his tie.

"You make it sound like Olivia did her job," he said. "Good for her."

He undid the knot and placed the tie around the neck of the hanger then began on his cuffs.

"Is that all?"

"No, that's not all. I had Munch observing for the Eshan interrogations while Fred and I worked Brian Boylston—"

"Who turned out to be uninvolved in the Cutter death."

Cragen faced Elliot, both cuffs undone, his cast resting on the top of his chair back. His flat glare and the deep frown lengthening his face warned the detective that any patience his captain had dredged up for him was almost gone.

"Stop angling for a pat on the head, Stabler," he said. "You're expected to do your job and work your cases whether I'm here or not."

_I don't want a damn pat on the head… but I know anger won't get through to you… what I don't know is how to get through to you...._

He drew in a deep breath and dug his fingers into the wood of the chair back.

"Sir, with all due respect," he said, "there were some decisions last night that should have been made at your level, not mine. If I could have—"

A slight jerk of his head, a tensing of muscles, the squaring of his shoulders—tiny adjustments that, when put together in one fluid motion, signaled that Captain Donald Cragen was now in full command mode with all the power and authority of the NYPD behind his words and actions.

"Since you're not comfortable acting as lead detective," Cragen informed him, "then it's time to make other arrangements. Now, if you don't need any more coddling, I'm sure you have work to do. I know I have."

The wood in his grip prevented fists from forming. He held onto it, knowing how close he was to throwing it across the room.

_Coddling? Coddling?_

Elliot executed a parade ground 'about face' and left before he shouted the word out loud.

Before the door swung shut, Cragen had his phone in-hand and was calling up his recent messages.

_Encouragement from Commissioner Richardson, Chief Conrad, Inspector Perry, Assistant Chief Wilkins... everyone's watching the negotiation like hawks... good—the more people watching, the more who notice me... and remember me at promotion time... call from Andrew about the Yankees game against the Twins on the Fourth... he scored great seats—Row G behind the dugout... that's great; I haven't seen a live game in too long.... Councilman Baker's office getting back to me about his neighborhood safety project...._

Cragen redialed that number.

"Tullia Horne, please…Tullia? Don Cragen. Tonight's good—no, you gave me plenty of warning. Seven-thirty at Laziz? That works for me. I'll see you there."

His next act was to shut the Venetian blinds so he could finish changing.

_Closing out a too-familiar view… I've stared through these windows into that squad room for ten years… too many victims, too much pain and disappointment… it's time I stared out at some place else, some place with more prestige and responsibility…._

He glanced at his dress jacket and the twin gold bars on its collar.

_Some place where I can wear gold oak leaves, then eagles, then stars… be what and where I deserve to be… think of myself for a change… show up a few people… and a 'working dinner' with Tony Balzano's sister is a great way to start…._

Sixteenth Precinct  
Seventh Floor Holding Pen  
1 July

_I almost committed insubordination against someone I admire and trust… how the hell did we get to this point?_

"Whoa! Slow down. Olivia's the runner, not me."

Elliot looked around. He was by the holding tank, having stormed the length of the squadroom without realizing it. John stood next to him with a mug of tea in one hand, Elliot's mug of coffee in the other. He handed Elliot the coffee.

"You came out of there like Cragen set your ass on fire. Did he?"

Elliot considered slinging the mug through the squadroom door…

_… smash Cap's office window from here…._

Instead, he took a gulp of coffee and tried to break the news gently.

"Congratulations, John. Looks like you're about to be named lead detective."

John's expression didn't change, but the tea in his mug sloshed as the hand holding it began to shake.

"You kidding. You've got to be kidding," he said, his voice rising on the repetition. "No one in their right mind would put me in charge of this playpen."

Who says Cragen is in his right mind? He's acting like that promotion he's angling for is a sure thing… and we all know his career stalled out long before I made detective….

"I just know what I've been told. If I'm out, then you must be in."

John's fingers tightened around his mug

_Bet he's thinking about throwing it.…_

"I grant that I doubt the sanity of everyone in this place, including me, but no place is bizarro enough to make me lead detective and...."

He waved his mug at Elliot.

"... since _you_ are our lead detective, here's your update on where everyone is: Olivia and Fin went to get the autopsy on the Cutter boy. Fred and Tammy are trying to verify Boylston's claim that CPS is targeting him and Couch and Otten are checking out a reported attempted break-in on W 204th Street—seeing if it fits the Dykeman pattern. I'm waiting for you so we can check out the last three leads on Madelyn McClure."

"Let's go now," Elliot said. "Sooner we're out of here, the longer we postpone your status change."

John gripped his mug in both hands, using it as a shield against unwanted responsibilities.

"Damn it, Elliot—if I wanted to be in command, I'd have taken the sergeant's exam back in—"

He turned to face Couch's desk then froze.

"Study, tenth, can do," he muttered. "Elliot out as shift lead and...."

Without warning, he handed his mug to Elliot and bolted for his desk. By the time Stabler caught up, John was logging onto the Department of Citywide Administrative Services website.

Elliot started at the unfamiliar display.

"Should you be in there?"

John didn't look up from his typing.

"No."

A few arcane commands, some _sotto voce_ curses, three taps of the left mouse button, and a comma-formatted list of names sorted by precinct and assignment displayed on John's screen. He scrolled down the list.

"One-Six...One-Six...," he muttered. "Look at all these names. They must be sending 'I want to be called "Sarge"' subliminal messages through the air vents."

Elliot grabbed John by the shoulder and spun him in his chair.

"John, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm hacking the sergeant's exam database."

"Why?"

"Because Cragen arranged to have Couch take the test."

He spun back around and pointed at his screen. Under his fingertip was the item "6513,914,Sofarelli,Alphonse,,25563,016,MANSVU,06232007,Cragen,05691,Y,Y,Y,Y,Y,7.09,N,N,,,".

"It takes a lot of juice," John noted, "to get someone on the list two weeks before the exam and only a fool takes it with such short notice."

Munch peered at Elliot.

"Looks like Don has the juice and Couch is a fool."


	14. Tropical Storm: part five

A/N: Arabell's Restaurant and Lounge is courtesy of Wendola of TWOP's recap of the episode "Chat Room", as is PervCon2000.

Some foul language in this chapter.

Office of the Chief Medical Examiner  
Hallway outside the Autopsy Suite  
30th Street and First Avenue  
1 July

"Hope you don't mind meeting out here," Melinda Warner said. "Every table is filled and the noise is getting to me today."

She handed Travis Cutter's report to Olivia, who glanced at it then handed the folder to Fin.

"I found a uncal herniation with compression of the vital respiratory and cardiac centers within the brainstem, a subdural hematoma on the right side, and cerebral edema with compression and a right-to-left shift of the brain."

"Which means?"

Warner pointed to the right side of her head above her ear.

"When Travis fell and hit his head on that rock, the subsequent brain injuries included damage to the areas that control his heart and lungs. When they stopped functioning, he died. Any idea why he wandered away?

"The last person to see him alive said he was looking for dinosaurs," Olivia replied. "His parents always took him to the Dinosaur Playground after their tennis game."

The twist of her lips told Olivia that the M.E. understood too well how it had played out.

"Can't teach little kids patience," Melinda said. "They have to grow into it. We've released his body to the funeral home. Let me know if there's anything else I can do."

Benson was about to thank her when Melinda changed the subject.

"Elliot and John okay? I haven't seen them in a while."

Fin waved the folder at her and said, "We've been getting the bodies; all their victims are alive and well."

Melinda examined first Fin's expression, then Olivia's. Although she did not say anything, the disapproval in her narrowed eyes warned Olivia that the lie did not sit well with her.

_She knows us... she has seen us saddened by the dead we bring her... seen us furious when their killers get off lightly... she knows when something isn't right... except this is right—it's just different...._

"Then tell them I said 'hi'," she said, "and that I hope their victims keep staying alive and well. We've got enough to do here as it is."

They said their good-byes then Warner pushed open the door to the Autopsy Suite. The whine of bone saws and the voices reciting autopsy findings filled the hall until the door swung shut again. As soon as the noise cut off, Olivia checked her phone for messages.

"Amanda Cutter wants to talk to me," she groused. "I hope it's not a request to attend Travis' funeral. I hate going to those things."

Fin checked his own messages while Olivia called in their availability to Cragen.

"He is not happy," she noted.

Fin did not bother to reply.

_I already told you why… all the shit from Operation Chestnut makes him hate everything about the NYPD… the brass for dumping on him, his friend for trying to crucify him, Elliot for lacking faith, Judith for being involved… the rest of us just because… I gave you the exact PSTD triggers... you didn't believe me then, you won't believe me now…._

Olivia sighed then punched the buttons of her cell.

"Mr. Cutter? It's Detective Benson. Your wife called and… no, sir; I can't give you that information…. No—since he wasn't involved in your son's death, we didn't charge him with—sir, it doesn't matter whether he has a criminal record or not, we still can't…. I understand you're angry; I wish he had brought Travis back to the tennis court, but there's no law that requires…. Yes, I know…. Yes, I know…."

After a few more "Yes, I knows," Olivia extracted herself from the conversation.

"I don't know who to curse first," she told Fin. "The Jurgens kid for telling a reporter about Boylston or the reporter for telling the Cutters that we questioned a man who could have saved their son. Now, they want Boylston's head on a platter."

She started down the hall toward the elevator, Fin in step with her.

"Cutters should have been watching their son closer," he said. "It's their fault he wandered off, not some stranger."

"That's awfully judgmental, Fin."

He shook his head as he said, "Most of the time, nothing happens when parents don't watch their kids. This time, the Cutters weren't so lucky. They already been judged and sentenced to burying their son."

"That's cold, Fin."

He pressed the 'Down' button on the elevator pad.

"It's an evil world, Liv. We both know it."

At the far end of the hall, the double doors swung open again. Warner dashed toward them followed by two assistants, all of them shrugging into official dark blue windbreakers.

"I should have included Otten and Sofarelli in my good wishes," Melinda said when she reached them. "They just found me a body."

Residence of Alice Carpenter  
217 W. 204th  
1 July

Cragen sent Benson and Tutuola to assist at Sofarelli's crime scene. Their destination was a six-story brick apartment building at the far end of Manhattan. A gap between it and the building west of it served as an air shaft, allowing some noon-day light onto the fire escapes on that side. Window air conditioning units filled some of the windows, including a few opening onto fire escapes.

Olivia pointed at one such fire-code violation just two stories up from the street.

"You'd think Department of Building would catch something that blatant."

"Not in this neighborhood," Fin noted. "It hasn't gentrified yet. Soon as the yuppies move in, the inspectors show up."

They found Couch on the fourth floor directing Warner and her team into Apartment #418. Through the open door, Fin saw CSU working the crime scene, including carefully bagging something by the front door.

_Damn… it's a dead cat… I ain't touching this case for nothing…._

As soon as she got Sofarelli's attention, Olivia offered her and Fin's help.

"Then let me fill you in," Couch said. "Carlotta Fernández, in apartment #411, saw a man outside her bedroom window last night. She wasn't going to report it, but her coworkers talked her into it. She called the 34th Precinct and their desk sergeant, who actually reads the departmental notices, passed it onto us.

"Miss Fernández said she saw the man after the evening news, which she watches on Telemundo at eleven, but before her neighbor's cat started crying. Since no one sleeps through a cat's cries, we went across the hall to see when that was."

Couch wrinkled his nose in remembered disgust.

"We could smell the cat crap and pee through the door. When the super opened it, we found a dead cat by the door, its back broken, and Alice Carpenter, its owner, dead in her bedroom. She'd been beaten to death, probably with the nightstand lamp. Looks like Fernández' Peeping Tom found an open window and an easy victim—easy until her cat got into the act. We found a raku bowl on the floor with cat hair caught in the rough pattern of the pottery and what may be blood under the cat's claws."

"So the cat joined the action, so to speak—" Olivia mused, "—and your suspect threw the bowl at it?"

"A lucky shot," Couch confirmed her guess. "Cat dragged itself to the door and died."

Olivia turned to Fin and tried hard not to grin.

"Animal cases are your specialty, Fin. Shall we take over?"

"Hell, no."

Fin took several steps in the direction of the stairwell.

"Call me if you want help canvassing. I'll be downstairs."

Olivia pressed her lips together and ran her hand along the leading edge of her hair, quick gestures to hide her discomfort over pissing off Fin. Next to her, Couch watched Fin's departure intently.

"Judith with the victim?"

"Yep."

_Couch looks a bit green around the gills…._

"You okay?" she asked.

He drew back and tensed.

_Okay… I won't ask again, but anyone can see the answer—slightly ragged breathing, more sweat than the temperature warrants… touchy disposition… you're either guilty or more upset by this than you want me to believe…._

"You want us to canvass or supervise the techs?"

_He'll pick canvassing because he thinks I just questioned his ability to work this case…._

"Why don't you and Fin go next door—see if anyone heard or saw anything. Ask the top floor about sounds on the roof in case he came across that way."

Olivia gave him her best reassuring smile.

"Will do."

_And I certainly hope you hold can it together…._

Parking lot of Castleton Presbyterian Church  
1154 Castleton Avenue  
Staten Island

Stabler and Munch's last three leads, the names and addresses of people resembling their sketch of Madelyn McClure, had led nowhere. Elliot waited until he and John were back in their Taurus before letting fly with a stream of words he never used in front of his family…

_…or in front of a Presbyterian minister, especially after asking if his wife lies to rape victims…._

"Three up, three down," Munch said, venting his own frustration by slapping the sketch of Madelyn McClure against the dashboard. "We need a new picture."

Elliot paused in mid-swear

"John, tell me you didn't say that."

"Not without lying," Munch replied, "but neither puns nor profanity will change the fact that we have struck out."

Elliot stuck the key in the ignition and started the car, but left it in "Park."

"We've been chasing shadows too long. We need a new plan."

"We," John corrected, "need dinner."

Forty minutes later, Sal of Sal's Staten Island Pizzas was setting a small meat monster in front of Elliot and a dish of eggplant Parmesan in front of John.

"We wasted so much time looking for McClure," Elliot noted, "it's as if we fell for the story she told Shanahan."

John growled through a bite of eggplant.

"We have to follow the leads we have. None of the print shops we tried had a proof of that business card on-hand and no one has recognized the sketch."

Elliot poked the end of his slice at John.

"We're stuck with two false IDs. McClure, who only exists to fool Bridget…"

'…and Sikkens, a RSO living under a fake name far from the state that convicted him," John continued.

Elliott bit the point from his slice.

"Suppose we take McClure's sketch around Sikken's apartment house—shake the tree and see what falls out?"

Munch considered the idea.

"We could end up shaking out more than we can handle."

"How so?"

"Sikkens was released from prison as a sex offender, required by law to report his place of residence, stay a set distance from anywhere children might be—schools, playgrounds, parks, places of worship, etc. He has to attend group therapy sessions, and his personal data is displayed on official "Beware the Pervert" websites, which enables concerned citizens to plaster his face on every flat surface in his neighborhood."

Elliot shrugged.

"It's no more than what they deserve."

John drew in a deep breath, his nostril flared and his eyes narrowed as he gathered his arguments. A moment later, he settled for another bite of his dinner.

"Let's table that civil rights discussion. For now, consider it from Sikkens' point of view. How much would you pay to become someone else, to avoid all those rules and regulations?"

Stabler grabbed another slice.

"A lot," he replied, "and, where there's a demand…"

Elliot paused long enough to wave the slice at John.

"…someone provides a supply."

"Straight out of high school econ class, but you're right. Now, think back to that get-together that Harry Waters, a/k/a The Yachtsman, allowed us to crash at Arabell's Restaurant and Lounge?"

Elliot chewed while he remembered.

"You mean PervCon2000, that banquet room filled with pedophiles trading tips and sharing stories."

Munch grinned at his description.

"That's where we learned how organized some pedophiles are. They arrange convivial dinners. They chat together online. They sell tapes and DVDs of their conquests to other perverts and collect payments through PayPal."

John reversed the fork in his hand and pointed its handle at Elliot.

"Why not go the extra step and provide fraternal benefits to your brothers in perversion? The Pervert Benevolent Association with legal aid, seduction tips, and relocation assistance complete with a new ID not tied to any sex offender registries. Before we shake Sikkens' apartment building, we should check to see how many angry, cop-hating RSOs will come tumbling out."

Elliot poked a crust at John.

"Given the size of the building, can't be more than a few dozen. What's the matter, John—don't like the odds?"

Munch reared back and glared at Stabler through his lenses.

"I like my skin in one piece, preferable wrapped around the rest of me. Let's do some due diligence first and see if I'm right."

Elliot looked at his watch.

"Okay, research tonight; apartment shaking tomorrow. Would you hand me the peppers?"

Sidewalk outside the 27th Precinct  
1 July

Fontana and Green were hurrying out of the precinct toward their goal: Bruno's for a meal ordered, eaten, and enjoyed far away from their desks and caseload. They had reached the bottom of the precinct stairs when the young attorney from the courthouse blocked Joe's path.

Green sidestepped his partner and turned to face the attorney.

_Just in case he decides to throw a punch… wouldn't want Joe's sartorial elegance to get mussed…._

The attorney paid Green no attention.

"Detective Joseph Fontana?" he asked.

Fontana held out his hand.

"Yeah, that's me. Hand it over; I'm a busy man."

The attorney regarded the outstretched hand as though it were covered in spit.

"I'm not a process server," he said. "I'm Derek Otten and I don't like the way you discuss my mother in public."

In the almost three years since Fontana had first graced the Homicide squad with his presence, Ed Green had seen him look self-righteous, self-important, self-absorbed, self-concerned, self-indulgent, self-interested, and most definitely self-centered. The mute, slack-jawed stare that his partner now wore was a completely new expression.

_He's even more stunned than when he saw the wreck cancer had made of Amy Dolan… is it because Judith's son is black or because he is challenging him?_

Two uniforms taking a cigarette break, their attentions caught by the sight of a civilian pestering a detective, began to move closer. Neither Fontana nor Otten noticed, but a shake of Green's head warned them off.

_It's never a good idea to roust a lawyer…._

"I'm certain," Otten continued, enunciating the words straight at Fontana, "that a man with your reputation who so freely admits to stalking a fellow detective will be of great interest to your Internal Affairs Bureau."

Fontana's tongue finally found traction.

"I assure you that I was not stalk—"

"My mother does not appreciate it," Otten told him, "and neither do I."

He stabbed his finger at the center of Fontana's gold tie, stopping just short of the silk fabric.

"If I see or hear of you pursuing my mother again, I will file formal charges with your superior and with IAB. Understand?"

Fontana held both hands up, the traditional gesture of surrender. One of the uniforms snickered.

"Again, I assure you that my intentions—"

"—are to stay far away from my mother!"

With that, Derek Otten turned on his heel and went to a black Mazda RX-5 doubled-parked nearby. He drove away without looking back at the stunned detective, who spun around to watch him leave.

"What the hell caused that?" Joe asked his partner.

_I shouldn't… I really shouldn't_….

"Maybe," Ed said, "he doesn't like the idea of you being his stepdaddy."

_I was wrong… Joe can look more shocked…._

Green quickly explained to his partner about the courthouse eavesdroppers from that morning.

"Well," Joe said, "that explains it. It's nothing but a simple misunderstanding."

Fontana reached into his pocket for his phone. Green stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Wait a minute—huh?"

Joe beamed at him.

"Like I said, it's simple. They don't know my intentions are honorable, although you'd think I would get the benefit of the doubt. All I have to do is explain things to Judith."

_What planet do you live on? Her son just said she didn't want you around…._

Fontana's end of the phone conversation did not help Ed's confusion.

"...I understand. Rape-homicides are messy things... Why don't you call me when you get free? Great… I'll wait to hear from you. Bye-bye."

Joe ended the call then grinned at the world around him, all his innate confidence restored.

"Let's hit Bruno's," he said. "I'm starving."

Enroute to the 16th Precinct  
1 July

Sofarelli spent the drive reading through his case notes and making additions to them. Otten ignored the glow of the passenger reading light as she drove.

_We're back in official communications only mode… I probably should have called him about Hanan, but he was on his way to JFK and Hanan didn't hesitate a second when I asked her to help… after shift, Couch and I went at it hammer and tongs… and I took too many cheap shots… he's wrong, but I should know better than to berate my partner like that…._

"That was bad."

She jumped at the unexpected sound of Couch's voice. He had put his notepad away and was staring at oncoming traffic, his cheek muscles twitching under dark stubble in counterpoint to his breathing.

_Rape and murder usually is bad…._

"Yes, it was."

_Keep it soft… maybe he's leading up to an apology…._

"I was hoping we'd catch the guy before it got this bad."

"Same here."

He jerked around to look directly at her.

"Think Cragen will give this case to someone else?"

Judith's guffaw startled both of them.

"In order to give it away," she told him, "our captain has to know it exists. Since he didn't even bother to make an appearance, I'd say we're safe."

Couch slumped back into his seat.

"I guess that's comforting."

She stood the silence for a few seconds then said, "You haven't made any mistakes—at least not any I've spotted."

Couch cocked an eyebrow at Judith.

"Thanks, I think."

_Thinking is okay—just don't brood… brooding is not good for you or for me…._

"We'll get this guy. He got sloppy tonight—"

"Sloppy?"

Couch twisted in his seat, bracing himself on the dashboard and seat.

"You call beating a woman to death in her own bed 'sloppy'?"

_Well, it certainly wasn't neat and tidy...._

"Yes, I do," she snapped back. "He made the sloppiest mistake of all—he lost control. Now, we have DNA—blood from the cat claws and the bed sheets. We can place him in this apartment at this murder and that nails him."

"But we have to catch the fucker first!"

"We will. I know it might take—"

The smack of his hand against the dash cut off her soothing words.

"The hell you know!" he shouted. "You think you know it all. That's why you never ask for help—not from me, not from Elliot or Captain Cragen, not from the departmental shrinks. You think you have it together, but you don't—you can't sleep and your brain turns to mush any time someone mentions guns or shooting."

Couch leaned as close as his seatbelt allowed.

"You want to know something? Know this—I don't like people putting my wife in danger. I don't like calling a woman with her skull smashed in 'sloppy' and I definitely don't like having a partner who is a burnt-out head case!"

Sheer will alone kept Judith's attention on the road. The lane to the right was clear so she jerked the steering wheel that way, taking the Taurus to a stop on the shoulder under a street light. She then shifted into 'Park' and turned, ready to scream back at him, only to find Couch with hands raised.

"That was wrong," he said. "Totally wrong. I shouldn't have said it."

She bit back the curses queued up in retort and swallowed to clear the bile from her throat.

_Apologies don't make adrenaline vanish… but that was heat of the moment… driven by stress… remember my first body, its stench and horror… my first hounding by the press, my first reaming by the brass for not solving the case in seconds…remember all that, because that's how Couch is feeling now…._

"Yes, well… like you said, this is a bad one."

They locked gazes and weighed each other's sincerity then Couch blew out a deep breath.

"Yeah," he agreed, "and I don't need to take it out on you. You're not the one roaming fire escapes."

She tried a smile, but tense muscles only let her lips twitch.

"Good to know I'm not your prime suspect."

Couch settled back into his seat as Judith sighed deeply

_I should call Hanan before he goes home tonight… warn her… keep Couch from blindsiding her the way he just did me…._

She looked at and caught his gaze. It was clear, steady, and accompanied by a wan smile.

_Okay… we're good to go….but not all of that outburst was case-driven… better reassure Couch now… if he tells anyone he's afraid I can't back him up, I'll be forcibly retired with no chance of a second chance…._

She merged back into traffic as she chose her words carefully.

"I was at the range Sunday," she told him. "I went through dozens of rounds—every one of them killed a target dead as paper can get."

_He's nodding… message delivered and received… goes for me, too… fake it if I have to, but do nothing to undermine his confidence in me…._

SVU Squadroom  
1 July

"Cragen in?"

Olivia's answer was a set of snorts from Stabler and Munch. John spun his chair around to face her.

"Our fearless leader," he announced, "was out of here by seven. No doubt hobnobbing with his fellow wizards."

She glanced at Elliot, who kept his eyes focused on his computer screen.

_Still being petty—huh, partner? Good thing Fin and I are working out as a team…._

"That's getting to be normal for him," she said. "Anything else up?"

John hooked a thumb at Interview One.

"Fred and Tammy brought in Simma Woolridge, the caseworker who Boylston said was hounding him. Seems she tried stonewalling, but her kid blurted out something about going to the park to talk to men. They're now trying to get her to give it up."

"That was easy."

John nodded. "We bust our collective butts on cases that slip out of our grasps like greased porkers while they get puffballs—rapists who walk into their open arms, boyfriends happy to demonstrate their women-beating techniques, calls to assist for the 27th …."

"They must live right," Olivia replied from the coffee machine. "Want some?"

John shook his head.

"There's some messages for you from the Cutters. You leave Fin with Couch and Otten?"

"He made a pit stop on the way in."

She slid into her desk chair and began transcribing her notes for Couch's case file. Across the desk, Stabler took notes as he read from his screen. Despite her being only two feet away from him, he took no notice of her.

_Wonder if I should talk to John about swapping desks? I suspect he hopes Fin still wants him back, but Fin hasn't said a word about it… odd Cragen hasn't mentioned any of this—_

A "What the hell?" from John broke her train of thought. Both she and Elliot turned in his direction to see him pointing at his computer screen.

"You got to hear this," he told them, "it's our brass at their shiniest: 'Captain Judith Siper of the Crime Scene Unit issued an apology today for the manner in which the deceased companion animals in the Nicholson murder investigation were handled.' It goes on to say that appropriately-sized carcass bags will be purchased for future transportation of deceased non-human evidence."

He pulled his lips back at the sheer inanity of the phrasing.

"'Appropriately-sized carcass bags.' I know that those are: pint-sized for goldfish, quart-sized for gerbils, gallon-sized for kittens—damn, Ziploc doesn't make livestock-sized ones. What if a Central Park carriage horse is murdered?"

Behind Olivia, Elliot muttered something about John playing in the Internet sandbox again.

"That's great, John," he said aloud. "Did you find anything about apartment management?"

John pointed at the printer.

"Check over there. You'll find the corporate info on Erastais Management, located about twenty blocks south of here. I'm still tracking down a list of the buildings it owns and manages, but that's the one we want."

"How do you know?"

"_Erastes_ is what the Athenians called the older male lover of a post-pubescent boy. _Erastai,_ which is the plural form, would court attractive young males with gifts of painted vases and poetry and keep them as lovers until they were old enough to become adult members of the community and _erastai_ in their own right. _Erastais_ is the plural dative form, translated as 'for lovers of youths'. "

While he elucidated, Elliot retrieved the printouts and leafed through them.

"They're sure of themselves," Olivia noted, "naming their company that."

"Not really," Elliot said. "Other than John here, how many people know enough to make the connection? I'll bet, if you search on-line for Erastais, you'll get other hits besides pedophilia sites."

'You mean pederasty and no, you won't," Munch replied. "But most of those sites are in Greek and you know the old joke—"

"Yeah, it's all Greek to me," Elliot supplied the punch line without laughing. "Okay—we'll shake Erastais Management tomorrow and see what falls out."

SVU Squadroom  
2 July

Howie's shift had the on-call that night. Fred and Tammy had gotten their confession and Olivia and John were standing them a round at McMullen's. Couch and Elliot were gone. Judith, still at her desk, was staring at the cell phone in her hand.

_Two minutes after midnight… time to decide… do I call Joe or not? Lots of reasons not to make the call… but after today's crap, I really don't feel like going home to an empty house…._

"It's a cell phone."

She jerked her head to the right and saw Fin leaning against Munch's desk.

"Thought I'd tell you," he said. "You look too tired to remember."

After a polite chuckle, she said, "Since you're telling me things, tell me about Detective Fontana. Is he as bad as Olivia says he is?"

Fin crossed his arms and nodded.

"Lots of flash with no class. Why?"

She held up her cell phone.

"He asked me to meet him for a drink tonight."

Nothing shifted in Fin's expression.

_Great control… I'm impressed.... but Fin's info and reaction doesn't square with my own observations… I enjoyed Joe's company and he was a very good sport about being out-shot…_

"You looking for advice?" he asked.

_It's just a drink… not a commitment...._

"No," she said, smiling to show her gratitude. "You told me what I needed to know."

"s'okay. G'night."

"Good night, Fin."

As soon as he left, Judith displayed Fontana's number on her phone's screen.

_A day like this one needs something… a drink, maybe dinner with someone I can relate to... a chance to relax and unwind...._

Outside the 16th Precinct  
2 July

_It's still hard to believe Cragen did this to me... one whiff of those gold oak leaves and he showed his true colors—nothing but brass... if it didn't mean losing my shield, I'd take him out... with Couch, I just want to know why the fuck he's involved...._

Elliot waited until Couch was at the driver's door of his black Accord before stepping out the shadowed doorway.

"Couch, got a minute?"

The wary tension in the younger man's stance relaxed as he recognized his friend.

"Can it wait, Elliot? I just want to go home."

Elliot walked around to the front of the Honda and planted himself by the fender.

_He has ten years and an inch of height on me plus he's a third-degree black belt... I've seen him take out three guys in a street brawl in less than five seconds… but I'm not his or Cap's doormat…._

Couch's eyebrows knit together as he puzzled over his friend's aggressive posture then he shifted this feet, placing himself sideways to Elliot's stance.

"I guess you found out about the sergeant's exam."

Elliot nodded but said nothing. He waited while Sofarelli mulled over his options.

_Couch is a stand-up guy… he'll give me the explanation I deserve…._

The younger man moved his hand up to rest it on the roof of his car.

"Sorry, Elliot. I can't tell you a thing about it."

"Why the hell not?"

"Orders from Captain Cragen. I'm sorry."

_Thanks, Cap…and fuck both of you for screwing me…._

Elliot took a step closer, stopping an arm's length from Couch, who sidestepped left; the hand resting on his car now a fist prepared to block or strike.

"Elliot, you don't want this."

"Want what, Alphonse?" he replied, deliberately using Couch's hated first name. "A beatdown from you? My balls on Cragen's wall as his trophy? Some kid who pukes at the sight of blood leading my shift? What the hell are you thinking?"

His insults bit into the younger man. Couch glared back at Elliot.

"I'm thinking how you once said I had what it takes to make captain. I'm thinking I almost put in for this exam, but decided to go for a transfer instead."

He lowered the blocking hand enough to look Elliot straight in his eyes.

"I'm thinking only an idiot turns down this big a favor."

Elliot shook his head at that one.

"You want Cap as your rabbi? He's been stalled out at captain since before you were born."

That fact didn't shake Couch's steady gaze.

"He's got Richardson's ear now. Once he's promoted, he'll be a damn good rabbi."

_No, he won't… he's fooling both himself and you… he should be monitoring Judith after Lau's shooting, he should be mentoring you as a SVU detective, not pushing you into an exam you can't pass… he should be wondering why Liv and me, John and Fin aren't partners any more… instead, he's letting the squad destroy itself… he's got his head so far up his ass, all he sees is his own hunger for having 'Deputy Inspector Cragen' painted on his door… something he'll never get...._

Stabler measured the resolve in his friend's posture, his eyes, the set of his jaw.

_… and nothing I say will make Couch realize that…._

That truth sapped his anger. Elliot swayed on his feet, feeling nothing but exhaustion from the shift-long struggle to hold himself in check.

_Why bother to fight this battle? I've already lost the war—I'm out as lead. Let someone else have it… can't say I'll miss the extra paperwork and hassles… with them gone, I'll have some free time… time I could spend with my kids… with Kathy… maybe…._

He stepped back, a signal that the confrontation was over.

"Don't ask me to like this," he told the younger man. "Don't ask me to help. Pass the exam or flunk it—it doesn't matter to me. Just don't fuck this unit up any more than Cragen already has."

With that said, Elliot crossed the street and headed for his own vehicle.

Note: "Sinatra in the Background" hooks into the timeline here and tells what happened on Otten and Fontana's date. "Tropical Storm: Part Six" continues the main story.


	15. Sinatra in the Background

27th Precinct  
Homicide Squadroom  
2 July

Joe Fontana had it all planned out:

_First, I did Judith a big favor by sharing my snitches with her then I was a very good sport about her wiping the floor with me at the pistol range... next, I studied her job history, reconnoitered her home, synagogue, her parents' townhouse—wish I'd known they were Judith's parents when I met them; they could have given me a lot of background on her—what she likes to eat, favorite wines, whether she prefers sunrises or sunsets, mountains or seashores—I need to know those things..._

Across the desk, Ed shrugged his shoulders then rolled his head in an effort to loosen stiff back muscles.

"That's it for me," he announced. "You going home?"

Fontana kept his gaze on the folder propped before him, using it and his reading glasses to hide the fact he was not thinking about open cases.

"Naw," he answered. "I'm going to finish reading through this first."

"Don't stay too long, bro. We only get sixteen hours away from this place."

Joe pulled his glasses lower on his nose to look up at Ed.

"Such generosity. We should be grateful."

He then reseated his glasses and peered back at the case notes.

_... next up I planned to get her 10-63 from Central Dispatch then 'just happen to run into her' at meal time... let Ed and her partner keep each other company while we talked... after that, a dinner invitation... then I'd call her a few times to say 'Hi'... invite her to a play or concert with drinks afterward, at which time I'd suggest that we spend a day together doing whatever made her happy, then another day together, and another..._

He ran through the possibilities: the ferry ride to Ellis Island and the museum there, the Botanical Gardens, the South Street Seaport, any of the art museums—some of the many places in the City where two people could wander interesting surroundings and enjoy each other's company, learn each other's likes and dislikes, grow closer by sharing their pasts and their passions.

_It's the propinquity effect—the more time Judith spends with me, the more familiar I'll become and the more things she'll find to like about me... time spent together, our common interests, and my charming personality would do the trick... six weeks, top and I'd be proposing to her..._

Derek Otten's finger poke upset his plan.

Thanks to him, I'm wasting time on damage control... at least it's time spent with Judith, but I'd better get my thoughts in order before—

His phone rang.

—_that rings._

To his surprise, Judith did not sound angry, suspicious, or reluctant to see him.

_Maybe she wants to tell me off in private… in that case, I'd better take her some place where we can talk without disturbing other people…._

Another surprise was how nervous he was on the short drive from his station house to hers. Despite the A/C in his car, his hands were slick on the steering wheel and his attention kept straying from traffic around him.

_There's nothing to worry about… this is preordained… I just have to counter what her son told her… after that, it's smooth sailing…._

Judith was by the entrance talking with a group of uniformed and plainclothes officers who were taking a cigarette break. He double-parked and watched her shoot the breeze with them until one of the uniforms spotted his car and began to drool. Judith turned around and he leaned over to open the passenger door for her.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked.

Judith glanced back at the entrance doors, taking in the precinct plaque, the green globe lanterns, the flash of red and blue as an RMP headed out with lights and siren.

"Anywhere that isn't here."

Joe observed the sag of her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes, and the hint of disgust in her voice.

_Some place private, exclusive, luxurious... the exact opposite of the city's idea of decor and amenities..._

"I know just the place—the Veneto Club."

Forty-three minutes later, he was nestled into a luxurious leather chair, a glass of _Brunello di Montalcino_ in his hand, the sweet delicate taste of _Prosciutto Veneto Berico-Euganeo_ on his tongue. Across the table from him, in a similar chair, Judith nibbled on a cracker with _Bianco Sottobosco_ cheese. The room they occupied had three more empty tables, all set in corner niches so each had the maximum available privacy, with a post-Deco card table in the center—a table at which Joe had dropped almost fifteen hundred the night before. The decor was brighter than the typical English-style club, the walls painted a rich parchment with light cherry wainscoting, the lighting indirect and hidden by more cherry wood. Pencil sketches and city scenes on the walls were by Renzo Vespignani, an artist Judith obviously liked judging by the appreciative smile she gave the art when she entered the room.

_I knew this would be perfect...now, if the staff would just stop staring at her... so what if she's the first female I've brought here? I'm entitled…._

Softly, just loud enough to be appreciated if one wanted to lean back and listen, carefully placed speakers were playing Hoagy Carmichael's "Manhattan Rag."

"That was very considerate of you."

Judith indicated the platters on the table between them. One held a selection of Italian cheeses and crackers, another _crudités_—vegetables with a curried dip, and a separate tray held _salami alla cacciatora_ and the _prosciutto_.

"Well," he said, "the kitchen here isn't kosher, so I had them put the pork sausages and ham on a separate plate. That's close enough, isn't it? I can send it back if that's not good enough."

"No, it's fine the way it is."

"Good. I know you have rules, but this _prosciutto_ is from _Roveredo di Guà_—that's the village in Italy where my family came from. I can't imagine not eating it."

_...and I just told her I won't eat Kosher... stupid, stupid..._

"Of course," he said, "between the curing salt and the ham itself, it's not a healthy food. I probably should give it up."

The quiet that followed his words was filled with the first notes of Johnny Mercer's "Too Marvelous for Words," followed by Frank Sinatra's voice with the lyrics. Judith sighed contently.

"A chair that feels like it was made for me, wonderful wine, great food-even the background music is perfect. I could live here."

"I do—well, not here exactly. This is a private club. I own a condo in this building."

He went on to tell Judith how the Veneto Club had been founded in the 1890s by Italian business tycoons who wanted a place to transact business and entertain while visiting the City. The club was located in a brownstone near Little Italy until the Great Depression, when the members pooled their money and purchased a turn-of-the-century skyscraper overlooking the New York Aquarium in Battery Park; the building went cheaply due to its seventy-eight percent vacancy rate. Those members who had not lost their businesses in the stock market crash moved into the unoccupied offices while the club took over the empty tenth floor.

In the 1960s, the members decided to renovate the floors above the club for high-end tenants. The club then voted to let the residence floors go condo in the early 1990s.

"Which is when I bought my place," Joe said as he refilled their wine glasses, "not long after I moved here from Chicago. Took me four more years to get accepted as a club member."

"Membership didn't come with your condo?"

He shook his head vehemently.

"The rules are very strict. Members must be voted in by a majority of current members. To apply, you have to be Italian or at least speak the language. You have to be able to afford the dues and building upkeep—the club still owns the first ten floors and a building this old is a bitch to maintain. You have to be recommended by at least three members and be of good moral character."

Judith smiled behind her wine glass.

"Is that what stopped you?"

"No, not at all. This stopped me."

As Sinatra began "Don't Make a Beggar Out of Me," Joe lifted his jacket to show her the shield case attached to his inside pocket.

"Tony Balzano was voted in the same month he made chief—that was enough to wash the street cop stink off him. Me? I had to wait until everyone was sure I wouldn't use the wrong fork or something."

Judith's smile shifted to one with a hint of guilt about it.

"Sure it wasn't more than that? A friend told me that IAB gets more calls about you than any other detective."

_IAB? People call the rat squad about me?_

The offense to his dignity stiffened his spine. He put his glass down with enough force to slosh the wine in its bowl.

"I don't why. My life and how I live it is an open book. My address is in my personnel file and what I paid for it is a matter of public record. I park my car in the precinct lot where everyone can see it. I don't wear off-the-rack to work…."

He grabbed a lapel and shook it.

"I dress like this. My season tickets to the Met—Grand Tier, mind you—are in my name and all my donations have my signature on the checks. I even date right here in Manhattan—no sneaking over to Jersey for me, Nothing I do is hidden. Everything is right out in the open."

She waved her hand to indicate the opulence around them.

"Except where your money comes from. It doesn't come from your paycheck; everyone at your pay grade knows what it looks like."

He pointed his index finger at her.

"No one has ever asked me about my money. If it's such a big deal, then why doesn't someone say something about it?"

Judith opened her mouth, but Joe kept talking.

"You know why? Because people want to think the worst about me. They'd rather think I'm confirmed or crooked than know the truth."

He ended his tirade with a huff of breath.

_Now, you gonna ask or not?_

To his delight, Judith took the bait.

"And the truth is...?"

"I'm so glad you asked."

Joe looked around the empty room then craned his neck to see out the open door.

_So long as no one walks in on this…._

"I'll show you."

Joe slid his arm from the right sleeve of his suit coat then eased his weight onto his left hip before pulling the front tail of his shirt from his waistband.

"See?"

Judith leaned away from him and raised an eyebrow.

"Just take a look," he urged her, "quick—before someone comes in and wonders what the hell I'm doing."

She hesitated so long that the Dinah Washington was well into the chorus of "I've Got You Under My Skin" before she finally slid forward in her chair and peered at his exposed abdomen.

"Subject," she said, using the monotone of a M.E. recording autopsy results, "has a faded appendectomy scar, approximately two inches long in the usual loca—wait a minute..."

Judith leaned closer to get a better view then she stared Joe straight in the eye.

"Two appendectomy scars?"

"Yeah. Hold on a sec."

He got to his feet, turned his back to her, and adjusted his clothing. After he was decent again, he took his seat.

"I won't bore you with the entire story," he said as he filled his glass and hers. "Suffice it to say that I went to work then drinking with the guys instead of staying home with a gut ache. I toughed it out too long then, when it really started to hurt, I let a bunch of sozzled cops take me to the ER. My friends were so loud and obnoxious, the nurses figured my moans of pain were another ploy to get their attention. By the time a doctor saw me, the damn thing had burst and he had to work fast—so fast that someone miscounted the hardware."

_I like that expression on you… worry and sympathy…all directed at me…._

"So the second scar is from more surgery?"

He leaned on the table between them, taking care not to upset anything with his elbows.

"Recovering a retractor and not one, but two sponges. I could have started my own practice with the stuff they left in me. Anyway, after a lot of arguing between me and the hospital, and my lawyer and the hospital, and the hospital and their insurance company combined by the usual writs and motions, I ended up with just under seven hundred thousand dollars."

"Wow."

He waved away her amazement.

"It wasn't worth it. I damn near died and I felt like shit for months. I also lost my cushy slot with the Robbery Unit and I had to prove myself all over again in Homicide."

_Of course, Homicide turned out to be a better fit for me…._

"That's a decent award, but it's not enough—"

He raised a finger to hush her.

"There's more. Since being flat on my back recovering was boring as hell, I read everything I could get my hands on. That included the financial sections of the paper. Reading the business news and observing how the stocks in different sectors moved was good practice for when I got the money. I started applying what I'd learned and I discovered that I was very good at investing. It might have been dumb luck, but I got out at the top of several bull markets, including the tech boom in the nineties."

_She looks impressed… and she should be…._

"I helped my family by paying off my parents' mortgage and, when my brother had a chance to buy into his father-in-law's construction company, I gave him the money he needed. In return, he gave me some of his shares, something that paid off big when Williams Construction decided the best way to enter the Great Lakes region was to buy up a bunch of local companies. Nick and me—we made out like bandits. That's really where the money came from—the Williams buy-out and my share of it."

In the background, Ella Fitzgerald launched into "Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive." Judith served herself some vegetables and dip while Joe snagged a sausage.

"Do you have any other family besides your brother?" she asked

"My parents and assorted aunts and uncles and cousins. Nick and his wife Julie have three sons: Charlie, Mike, and Nick Junior. Charlie's married with two sons; Nick Junior and his girlfriend just had a baby boy. Boys run in our family; there hasn't been a girl born in at least four generations."

He took a quick sip of wine.

_This is my chance bring up Derek… Judith still hasn't said anything about it and that bothers me… I need to get that out of the way…_

"Speaking of family, I met one of your sons today."

"Which one—Dante?"

"No, Derek. The attorney."

Her chuckle surprised him.

"He had you on the stand? I'm sure that wasn't fun."

_She's just sitting there, glass in hand, head back against the chair, looking very comfortable… this doesn't make sense… _

"No, he came by the house and told me to stay far away from you."

Joe shifted in his chair so he could lean closer to her.

"He seemed concerned about my intentions toward you, but there's nothing to worry about. My intentions are completely honorable. I want you to know that."

Judith's expression did not change. Joe smiled around a sigh of relief.

_Glad that's over with… now, to get on with my life story…._

Before he could speak, Judith reached into her pocket for her phone and keyed a speed-dial number.

_What the hell?_

"Cammie, it's Judith. No, everything is fine, but I need to speak to Derek."

Joe stared at her, hoping that the pressure of his gaze would convince her to end the phone call.

"Derek? Yes, I know it's after 2 a.m. Did you talk to a Detective Fontana today? You did. Okay—about what?"

_Damn—she didn't know anything about what her son said to me... I did all that worrying for nothing.…_

"Isn't that my decision—not yours? I don't care what Cammie said... Yes, I've heard the stories, but I can take care of myself..."

_That doesn't sound good..._

Suddenly, she sat bolt upright in her chair.

"When I'm senile and incontinent and not one second before! Do you understand? Good—and good night."

Judith then slid the phone into her pocket and turned her anger on Fontana.

"And what do you have to say for yourself?"

_Stall... find out what exactly why she's upset..._

In the background, Ella's voice faded as Frank began to sing "Don't be That Way."

"Uh... excuse me?"

Judith pinned him with a glare straight from the interrogation room.

"Did you go to my house to snoop around?"

The insult in her accusation stung. Joe squared his shoulders and met her glare with one of his own.

"I did not snoop around. I drove past your house; a lot can be learned about a person from their house, you know."

Judith continued the intense glare.

… _but her mouth just twitched ever so little… my story isn't matching her son's and she knows it…._

"And what did you learn from my parent's place?"

_Good question… I can easily get her address, but knowing her parents' proves I did some serious digging… better answer this one truthfully… if not honestly…._

"Your parents and I had already met. I attended a cocktail party at their townhouse—a fundraiser for the Geistner Foundation. While I was there, I had a fascinating conversation about Giuseppe Mazzini with your father."

She blinked at his answer then her gaze lost focus while she thought.

"J. T. Fontana, ten thousand dollars?"

He nodded graciously as though her question served as a fresh introduction.

"That's me. I was glad to write that check. Keeping art in the public schools is important work."

…_and she must serve on the foundation's board… otherwise, how would she know how much I'd given them?_

"Thank you for your generosity. However, it doesn't explain why you need to know about me."

_I'll bet she works her cases with the same tenacity… I really admire that… except when it's aimed at me…. _

He examined her expression, posture, the position of her hands, seeking any hints of how she felt and what she was thinking….

_Great poker face… wonder if she'd like to join our game next week? Tessa would love another woman at the table and I know the guys wouldn't mind…. I'd even front her the money… but I'd better keep on point… _

He rested his elbows on the table between them and spread his lips in a friendly but just slightly superior smile.

_Let's try a counterattack… but carefully, very carefully… she's good… almost as good as me…._

"For the same reason," he told her, "you called the rat squad about me."

Judith jerked back ever so slightly then leaned forward, matching his elbows-on-the-table stance and halving the distance between them

"I called a friend, not IAB itself. Besides, I was protecting myself. After the Chestnut fiasco, that last thing I need is to be caught with a crooked cop."

_That makes sense… helping a crooked chief bring down the head rat, even if you were only a pawn, won't make the rats love you…._

"But," she continued, "nobody thinks I'm crooked so my explanation doesn't work for you."

She tipped her head toward him, a move that placed her scant inches from his nose, and stared straight into his eyes.

"Why are you checking me out?"

The scent of her perfume and closeness of her face drew his attention from the question.

_Chanel N° 19… it suits her perfectly… no signs of hair coloring… it's great she's secure enough to gray naturally… and her eyes aren't perfectly blue… there's a bit of green just inside the dark blue circling her irises… more azurite than sapphire… a matched pair of boulder opals set as earrings will bring out that green… maybe that should be my first gift to her…. _

All of a sudden, her eyes disappeared from his view. Judith had ducked down to get her purse. She stood up and took a step away from him.

"It's been an interesting evening, Detective. I'll find my way out."

In the background, the music changed to Sinatra's version of "The Moon Got In My Eyes" as Joe scrambled to his feet.

"Judith, wait a minute."

Judith stood her ground.

_Fist clenched… jaw set… nostrils flaring with each rapid breath… she's pissed… and I missed it because I was admiring her eyes…._

"Why?"

The word was spat back at him, but Judith gave Joe no time to respond. She planted her feet as though expecting an attack then she lit into him.

"I wasn't sure about this to start with. You have a lousy reputation, but you've been helpful and I thought straight up with me. I can understand you checking me out—we're detectives and it's second nature—but you went 'way past the allowable."

He held his hands out open in a bid for mercy…

…_or a chance to get a word in edgewise…_

…but Judith ignored his gesture.

"You tell me how honest and trustworthy you are, but nothing you say or do backs that up. When I ask the same question this many times, I expect an answer. I didn't get one and I'm out of here. Don't bother calling; I should have known better than to try this."

She turned and headed for the door. Joe felt his hands strike his thighs as gravity took them, but he could not make his muscles raise them again. It was as though time and space had frozen and the only motion allowed was Judith's march across the room.

_Say something… anything…._

Her steps did not slow as she reached the exit.

_Now…._

"It's because I love you."

Judith spun on her heel and glared at him.

"You have got to be kidding."

Joe held his hands out again in a plea for her to listen and understand.

"I'm not. It's true."

"You barely know me."

"I know, but love is a matter of finding the right person. For me, that's you."

He ignored the stark disbelief on her face and explained the Fontana Curse. The words poured forth in long rambling phrases that he couldn't remember even as he spoke them. At one point, he must have offered to have his brother verify the story because he was holding his cell phone when he finished, but he did not recall getting it out. All Joe knew for certain was that everything he wanted to tell Judith over the next six weeks rushed out in a matter of a few minutes.

"I didn't want to settle down young the way my grandfather and my father and my brother and my nephews did. I figured I'd have more fun doing it my way. I never led anyone on, but I never let any of them get serious. I'd met a woman; we'd have a good time; we'd both move on to someone else. After enough years, it went from being fun to being convenient to being my lifestyle."

Something from the Swing Era was playing in the background, but Joe was too intent on watching Judith's reaction to catalogue it.

_She's not buying it…._

"You have got to be kidding," she repeated.

He inched closer to her.

"I have never been this serious in my entire life," he assured her. "Do you know I'm sixty years old? I told Ed I was too old to get married, but I was wrong. Now that I've met you, I know how wrong I was."

Judith raised both eyebrows at his last words.

"Let me get this straight," she said, "you're a life-long philanderer, a grown man who believes in magical curses, and you're a stalker who sees himself as Prince Charming—right?"

Joe gritted his teeth at the bluntness in her words.

"When you put it that way—"

She pinned him with a sneer.

"That's exactly how I'm putting it. What if I don't want to be swept off my feet? What if I say 'No'?"

Joe Fontana stopped breathing.

_Don't… please don't… except she can and I have to let her… I've seen too many women murdered by men who refused to stop at "No"… but it's not supposed to go this way… this is all wrong…._

His lungs, starved for air, drew in a long, ragged breath. In response, Judith edged further away from him. She watched him closely—not his face, but his chest, the exact way they were taught to watch a suspect about to attack.

_She's boxed in, threatened... she's seen those men, too—and she thinks I'm one of them…._

His hands went cold as he lowered them. The cold spread through his veins and chilled him to his core, a physical reaction to the fear that he had just loved and lost.

_Try one more time… she said "No", but she also said "If"…._

Joe put on his most appealing smile.

"I know I'm not much of a Prince Charming,' he said smoothly, "and I wasn't stalking you. I just wanted to figure out what you like so I could—"

He saw her left thumb curve inside her palm. She made a fist around it and shook her head.

"No. This is real life. It's not a fairy tale. It's messy and there isn't any magic in it."

In the background, the swing music faded away. After a brief pause, Frank Sinatra began a song from 1953:

_Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you—  
If you're young at heart_

Both their heads turned toward the speakers.

_Hear that? You get one more chance… take it…._

"Listen," he said, so softly he barely heard himself, "would Frank Sinatra lie to you?"

Judith eyes widened in complete disbelief. She turned to face him and a gurgle like a dove strangling came from the back of her throat. Her lips parted and she began to laugh, a few chuckles at first, then full belly laughs that shook her entire body until she had to flail her arms for balance.

Joe grabbed a chair and pulled it around behind her. Judith sank into it and doubled over, her hands wrapped about her stomach as she began to guffaw in loud, barking laughs.

One of the club's waiters came to the door. Joe waved him over and asked him to quickly bring some water as Judith continued to guffaw uncontrollably. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gasped for breath between laugh spasms. Joe knelt on the carpet by her, unsure if he should put a hand on her shoulder to help steady her and if she'd only laugh harder at his touch.

_It wasn't meant to be funny…._

The waiter returned with a tray with a carafe and a glass. Joe pointed at the floor next to him and the waiter set the tray by Joe's knee. Judith turned her head to watch him, but she was still laughing too hard to say anything. Finally, after the waiter had left and the background music had switched to another big band number, she was able to gasp out a single word.

"Hurts."

Joe put his hand on the arm of her chair.

"I'll bet. Take a deep breath—see if that helps."

She hissed in a long breath.

"Now another."

Two more deep breaths and her muscles began to loosen. Judith slowly leaned back in her chair, her arms still tightly wrapped around her abdomen.

"Better?"

She nodded.

"Y'know, you can bust a rub laughing that hard."

Judith nodded again then reached up to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

"I must have needed a good laugh."

_Sure, but at my expense?_

She drew in another deep breath then pulled herself upright in the chair.

"That was perfectly timed. Did you plan that?

Joe waved the idea away.

"Hell, no. The music is a bunch of CDs on random play. Aretino knows what I like and he sets it up. I had nothing to do with it."

Judith stretched to test sore muscles. She then looked him over again, starting with his hands and working up to his face. Joe held still and tried to look responsible and trustworthy.

_She better hurry up or I'll need a crane to get back on my feet..._

"What you're telling me," she said, "your family history, love at first sight, changing your whole life for me… you really mean it."

The knot in his own gut loosened.

"Yes, crazy as it sounds. I really mean it."

Her hands, which were resting in her lap, clasped together with her right thumb touching the gold band on her left hand. The moment they touched, Judith began to frown.

_Okay, now I get it... she's thinking like a married woman... treating her wedding ring like a leash instead of a memento... better not use that simile... I know she loved her husband, but I'm not letting some dead guy get in my way... better not say that, either... I'm happy to be second, so long as first isn't around any more... and I need a better way to say that, too... come on—think of something…._

Joe reached out his hand and pointed at her wedding ring.

"You had—what? Thirty years with your husband?"

"Thirty-four."

"Yeah—thirty-four years. It's part of what makes you wonderful. You know how to love someone for a lifetime. You can teach me how to love you like that."

_There... that didn't blow up in my face... she's not frowning at me... and her hands just relaxed..._

He settled back on his heels, both to ease the ache in his knees and to give her room to think.

_There! She just leaned slightly forward... her thinking is tipping my way... now, if I can preempt her next objection..._

"I know," he assured her, "there are lots of things we need to work out—religion, family, politics, philosophies of life—all those things. How about we tackle them one at a time over a few dinners? That will give me a chance to prove myself to you. If I can't, then I promise to never bother you again."

She eyed him warily while she considered his offer.

"You're offering me a chance to kick your tires? Check under the hood? See how you corner in the turns?"

He beamed at her.

"Exactly. I couldn't put it better myself."

She shook her head, but the slight curve of her lips showed that this time, it didn't mean "No."

"I'm probably nuts, " she warned him, "but okay—one test drive. Then we'll see what happens from there."


	16. Tropical Storm: part six

Street oustside Eratais Management  
157 W. 14th Street  
2 July

Stabler called Munch at ten-thirty a.m. with a request to meet him at Eratais Management with lunch and coffee. He said nothing to John about overtime for the stakeout, the sergeant's exam, Kathy and Dr. Jackson, or Cragen's plans for lead detective.

John took the subway to the Eighth Avenue and 14th Street station then located a deli. After provisions had been procured, he sauntered toward the target building.

_I see it... that gray four-story with the small appliance shop on the ground floor... wonder how many perverts are busy repairing toasters and foot massagers in there?_

He scanned the parked cars near the building and spotted Stabler, dressed as John was in suit and tie, sitting in a beige Taurus across the street and a hundred feet closer to Seventh Avenue...

... _and further from me... thanks, Elliot—make the old guy walk...._

After John was settled into the passenger seat and the corned beef and coffee had been parceled out, Elliot filled him in.

"The management company has the three upper stories with its own entrance—see the door next to the repair shop window? It has an intercom, keypad entry lock, and a very well-hidden security camera. No way we're going to waltz in without warning."

"Anyone been in or out since you got here?" John asked.

"Two men: one thirty-five minutes ago, one fifty-two minutes ago. Both Caucasian, both mid-thirties, one in jeans and a t-shirt, one in a gray shirt and tie. I saw him walk in front of the left-hand second-story window a couple times; maybe his office."

"What do the neighbors have to say about them?"

"Nice, quiet. They clean up graffiti promptly and never block the sidewalk with their trash."

Elliot took a swig of coffee and nodded his thanks.

"I also got some imaginative guesses as to why Eratais needs the high security entrance. A clerk at the vintage clothing store next door thinks the Russian mob owns the place. The other clerk thinks they're diamond brokers, but not the Jewish kind."

John paused in mid-chew.

"She's checking foreskins?"

"No," Elliot said after a chuckle, "she doesn't see any black suits, fedoras, and sideburns."

"Ah... the field markings of the Hasidim, worn because Torah forbids working with diamonds without the proper costume."

"It does?"

"No, Elliot. I'm pulling your leg. Would you like to learn about the distinctive attire of the Hasidic Jew?"

"Why don't you save it for the next long stakeout?"

Elliot pointed at the shop to John's left.

"The owner of that shoe repair thinks Eratais is a neocon think-tank in league with Halliburton—you'd like him, John; he's your kind of people."

"Handsome and intellectual?

Elliot ignored the question. He hooked a thumb at the shop behind them.

"The woman at the bookkeeping service told me it's a travel agency for sex tourists."

John peered at Elliot, who nodded solemnly.

"She said only beady-eyed white men go in there and that's exactly what 'pee-ed-doe-files' look like."

John rolled his eyes at the hick pronunciation.

"Did your pervert profiler happen to spot Madelyn McClure booking a trip to Lesbos?"

Elliot's grin widened.

"A woman matching our sketch arrives every week day at 7:45 a.m. Her departure time is more erratic. I figure we'll sit here until we spot her then ask her a few questions—preferably on our turf, not hers."

John slid down in his seat and wriggled until he was comfortable.

"We covered with Cragen for OT on this?" he asked.

"He signed the form and damn near threw it back at me. Doesn't matter. I don't care anymore."

The awkward silence that followed Elliot's statement lasted until John finished his coffee. He tossed the cup to the floor behind him and turned his attention to Elliot.

"You mean that?"

"Yeah. I'm tired of all the shit—the brass, the cases, the crappy hours, the way it eats into every part of my life. It's time to let Couch hassle it."

"Not Couch—me," John corrected. "The shit you're ducking falls on me next."

"Not for long. I talked to Couch last night. He not only expects Cap to rabbi him through the ranks, he expects his stripes without the wait for a promotion and transfer."

"How? Don's a _schlub _stuck below the rank he thinks he deserves. He doesn't have the juice to put that off. "

Elliot sighed through clenched teeth.

"All I know is what Couch said. However Cap's doing it, the fix is in."

SVU Squadroom  
2 July

Otten and Sofarelli also got an early start. They were at Alice Carpenter's apartment building before breakfast to talk to the late-shift workers who were arriving home. They then went to Carpenter's place of work, a dry cleaners in Queens, to talk to her coworkers about old boyfriends, men seen hanging around, and men who might have a reason to hurt her. They repeated the questions at her church and to some of her friends and family members.

After several hours of fruitless questioning, they took a break—Couch at the _do jang _on Houston Street, Judith at her parent's place, then they picked up the expedited lab and autopsy results and headed to their desks.

The glass wall by Couch's desk displayed the revised map of home invasions and rapes with the address of Alice Carpenter's murder marked with a flashing red dot.

"… fourteen hairs found on the bed sheets," Couch read silently, "match samples taken from the victim. Six hairs match those found at crime scenes designated as part of the Dykeman Rapist case; none have follicles attached. Twenty-seven anomalous hairs, variegated gray and white less than three inches long, are of feline origin and are consistent with the deceased neutered gray tabby cat found at the scene."

_Good… this isn't a copycat or completely new rapist working the area…._

He opened another folder and skimmed its contents.

_Fingerprints also match…._

He placed the two reports by Judith's cactus garden and picked up the rape kit portion of the autopsy.

_Fluids present match semen found in other victims… I'm up to my eyeballs in evidence and it's doing me no good…._

The sound of leather shoes on linoleum approached then stopped behind him.

_I sense a disturbance in the Force…._

He spun his chair around to find Captain Cragen staring at the displays on the glass wall.

_Arms crossed, head tipped back, deep frown, planted feet… I also sense a major ass-chewing in my future… so some sucking up is in order…._

"Please tell me you see something I've missed."

Cragen kept his attention on the display.

"You mean like the description or location of the doer?" he asked. "No, Sofarelli—I don't see that up here. You got it in one of those folders you're spending your time reading?"

Couch held up the report in his hand.

"No, sir. It's all the same—the kind of forensics most cases crave, but nothing that gives us a suspect."

This time, Cragen turned to face the two detectives.

"So why are you here and not out finding a witness?"

Behind Couch came a soft "tuh" from Judith as though she were about to speak.

_Sorry, partner… it's my case, not yours…._

"We were canvassing at eight this morning, sir. We talked to coworkers, church members, friends, family. Howie gave us Greg, Jason, Amelia and Dan; they're hitting Carpenter's building and the neighborhood again while we run through the reports. Judith's also been on the phone with Montreal, requesting they run the DNA, fingerprints, and hair through their databases."

"That's great," Cragen responded. "You calling Mexico next? Maybe Mongolia? Your perp isn't in some other country—he's in his comfort zone right there—"

Cragen's arm straightened to land his index finger in the Inwood section of upper Manhattan.

"—and that's where you need to look for him. Put your feet on that pavement. Get this guy before you have two rape-murders to explain to the brass."

With that said, the captain turned and walked past Judith and out of the squadroom. Couch saw the four detectives present shift their attentions from their work to him then swiftly turn away again.

_Yeah, everyone heard Cragen announce that we're spinning our wheels… makes us look real good…._

He barely had time to return to his own work when Judith spoke up.

"Let's put out an APB. 'Suspect is in his late fifties, six-one, bald, brown, face like a basset hound, uses his suspenders to hold his balls in place…'."

Shocked gasps and muffled laughs greeted her suggestion. Judith's sour grimace matched her sarcasm.

"You think they'd take my pension away for that?" she asked.

"Yes," Howie called out, "and all of ours, too."

He left his desk and sat down in Couch's side chair. In a low voice, he said, "Everyone knows Cragen's being a butt. You can't force the evidence; you can't make the perp walk into your arms. You know this. Don't let it get to you."

Couch nodded his thanks for Brewster's encouragement, but after the detective returned to his own desk, Couch's attention went back to the flashing red dot on the glass wall.

_Too late, Howie—it's already gotten to both of us...._

Office of D. Cragen  
Sixteenth Precinct  
2 July

Spreadsheets filled his computer screen: unit personnel reports, duty rosters, summaries of case status reports, DD-this, and DD-that—a mosaic of grids with numbers, all of them demanding input, correction, or approval from him.

Don paid them no attention. He was daydreaming.

_Downshift from fourth... take the corner hard... downshift again... come to a stop next to Tullia... she's duly impressed with my driving skill... she gets in... arm around her... let's take Pennsylvania Hwy 120... skip over the hours on I-80 needed to get there... follow the river from Lock Haven to Ridgway... twists and turns, hills and cliffs... the Jag purring like a kitten and running like a lion full-out after a gazelle... Tullia telling me how much she likes exploring country roads...._

That fact, learned the night before, prompted him to switch mental tracks.

_Business took us maybe half-an-hour, then Tullia and I shifted to off-duty mode... hobbies, home towns, likes and dislikes… by the time dessert arrived, we were sharing family histories, deciding whether the Cragen or the Balzano families were weirder... we couldn't compare children, but hers sound great—a son with Buffalo P.D., the other career Marines, a daughter in the Coast Guard thinking about law enforcement when she gets out... wonder if Marge and my kids would have followed in my footsteps or hers?_

A knock on his closed door killed his chance to ponder that question. The door opened and Olivia leaned through the gap.

"You wanted to see me?"

Cragen waved her in with a stiff motion of his left hand. Benson sat in the chair across from him then pointed at the captain's wrist.

"You got the cast off. Congratulations."

Cragen rolled his wrist back and forth and smiled at the joy the simple motion gave him.

"About time, too. Damn thing was starting to smell like a dead cat."

He shook his wrist to move his cuff clear of his watch then checked the time.

_Perfect… just enough time to tell Olivia and not enough for her to bitch at my decision…._

"I didn't ask you here to admire my wrist," Cragen said. "I'm putting you in as lead detective for a while—give Elliot a break. I'm announcing it at the shift meeting. Any questions?"

He expected an immediate reaction from Benson—bolting to her feet to protest, a outright refusal, or a fist slammed on his desk. Her pursed lips and quiet acceptance surprised him.

_Of course… Elliot remembered my comment about hating John as lead and warned her…._

"Just one question," she replied. "Judith has seniority and John has been here longer than me. Is this going to cause problems with them?"

Cragen shook his head. "I know for a fact John doesn't want the job. Judith is aware she hasn't been here long enough. Anything else?"

Olivia stared at him for a moment then shook her head.

"Nope. Sound good to me."

"Good. Then that's settled. I'll be out in a minute for the meeting."

She stood in one smooth motion then paused with the tips of her fingers resting on the edge of his desk.

"Thank, Don," she said as a smile parted her lips. "I appreciate your trust in me."

She left, closing the door behind her.

At the meeting, Cragen watched his command's faces as he announced the change. Brewster's people showed no concern and Elliot's scowl of resentment was as expected.

_John's staring at me like I just grew hair—not sure if he's shocked because I picked Olivia or if he's relieved… every one else seems good with this… not that it matters… it's my unit to run as I please…._

Cragen then excused himself for a meeting at One Police Plaza and departed, leaving Benson in the center of attention. She glanced around the room, checking the thirteen detectives and the patrol officers and staff who were watching her, then drew in a deep breath.

_Okay, it's showtime… stop glaring at me, Stabler… I didn't ask to clean up your mess...._

"Where's Judith and Couch?" she asked.

Several people from Howie's shift snickered while Howie replied that they were reinterviewing past victims. Olivia recapped the rape-murder in the Dykeman case for them then warned the team that the Cutters were attempted to learn the identity of the man who did not help their son.

"Don't slip up and tell them; we don't need the lawsuit. Elliot, John—anything new with you?"

The question, kept as light and casual as possible, only deepened Elliot's scowl.

"We located a woman matching Madelyn McClure's description," John told her. "She works for a building management company on West Fourteenth with very good security. We'd like to duck out early tonight so we can be there when Ms Phony arrives for work tomorrow morning. The plan is to pick her up without alerting Eratais Management that we've got her. If they are helping recently released sex offenders circumvent the terms of their paroles, we want them to stay put until we're ready to deal with them."

"Sounds good to me. Fred? Tammy?"

"Nada for us," Tammy answered. "Judith asked if we'd run computer searches on their latest rape-murder—see if VICAP or NCIC spits out anything new."

"Okay—you and Fred are catching first, then Fin and me. John, you and Elliot can leave early; put your request on my desk if I'm not here. Anything else?"

Since no one said anything, Benson ended the shift meeting with a smile and a "Thanks." Howie's people headed out; Elliot's people…

_No, they're mine now… _

… settled into their desks while Olivia headed for coffee. Fin walked up while she wiped out her mug.

"How'd you get stuck with this?"

Fin's whispered question was directed at her, but his gaze was focused on Munch, who was at his desk drinking a mug of tea and chatting with Tammy.

Olivia shrugged.

"Cragen just handed it to me. I know he and Elliot are on the outs, but I didn't realize how bad it was."

Fin shifted crossed behind Benson to place him where no one in the squadroom could see his face.

"It's bad between Cap'n and everyone right now. Remember I told you about him being affected by all the shit from Sullivan?"

His words tickled something in the back of her brain. Olivia concentrated on bringing it to mind.

_That was last month, right after the Chestnut fiasco… Elliot and I were wondering how well Judith was coping with Greg Lau's shooting... Fin jumped in with the idea that Cragen would have problems, too...._

She watched the coffee pour into her mug and wondered if Fin had the right of it.

_First I've ever heard of ambition being a symptom of Post-traumatic Stress... if I blame the way the captain is acting on PTSD, then I have to worry about everyone on that operation—Judith, Elliot, Tucker... and Fin...._

She doctored her coffee with non-dairy creamer as she glanced in Fin's direction.

_Better not say that... he'll take it wrong and I'll need another new partner... something we're fresh out of right now…._

"I remember. Thanks, Fin. I appreciate the heads-up."

Olivia stirred some Equal into her coffee.

"Guess I'm ready to get the files from Elliot."

Fin picked up the bowl of sweetener packets and handed it to her.

"Better take this. The way Elliot looks, you're gonna need it."

Elliot, however, already had set the folders containing the OT forms and other shift paperwork on her desk. She leafed through the material in the hope that Elliot might offer advice or let her know what was left unfinished, but he kept his attention on his e-mail and said nothing to her.

_Fine... it's not that hard a job... assign cases if Cragen's not here... approve OT if he's not here... handle things with the media or the public if he's not here... I don't know why you're being such a ass about this... it's not like Cragen handed it to Couch...._

Hallway near SVU Squadroom  
2 July

John Munch rounded the corner from the elevator and stopped short. There, in the hall between the light well and Cragen's office door, Otten was finishing a cell call. A quick glance around showed no one nearby so, when she slipped the phone into her pocket, he approached her.

"Look who I found," he called out. "It's Detective Otten. How's Dykeman Street treating you, Detective?"

Her expression went blank.

_She must be deciding whether to retreat before my superior wit or make another feeble attempt to keep up with me…._

The decision took less than a second to reach. Judith squared her stance to face him.

"It's treating me better than Captain Cragen is treating you, Detective. Skipping over you to make Olivia shift lead has got to sting."

He peered under his lenses at her and shook his head.

_Weak, Otten… very weak…._

"Not at all. I'm perfectly happy to let Olivia do the paperwork. It leaves me free to provide the intellectual prowess this unit needs."

"Nice rationalization, Detective…"

'_De-tec-tive'… I can almost see the sarcasm dripping from each syllable as Otten sneers that title… ._

"…but no one else sees it that way."

"Oh?"

John folded his arms and leaned against the wall behind him.

"Enlighten me. Tell me how why this isn't a brilliant maneuver to dump hours of boring paper-shuffling on someone else."

"There are three reasons to disregard a detective with seniority."

Otten ticked them off on her fingers.

"The first is pressure from above, which doesn't apply here. The second is favoritism, which also doesn't apply."

_I don't like where this is going… time to derail her train of thought…. _

"Are you certain?" he asked. "If I were Don, I'd rather discuss overtime requests with Olivia than me. She has certain… let's call them 'attributes' that I lack—"

Otten snorted in disgust.

"You're right about the 'lack' part."

She stepped forward, crowding him against the wall.

"You've lost your edge. You're not fast enough or sharp enough. Everyone covers for you, but it's a misguided loyalty that, sooner or later, will get someone killed. Cragen keeps you around because he knows you need the paycheck to stay solvent and the work to keep from eating your gun, but he doesn't trust you with anything important. You don't have what it takes anymore."

Munch peered over his lenses at her.

"As usual, you're wrong about everything. I pull my weight. I work my cases. I am perfectly able to do the job."

"You are? Prove it—walk down this hall without limping."

John shifted his weight and stomped forward. The twinge of pain that ran up from heel to his hip halted his progress.

"The limp doesn't matter. Everyone knows I got shot."

"Yeah, you got shot—over a year ago. Now, it's an excuse to cover up your unfitness for duty."

"I'm fit enough for duty," he protested, his shrill tones echoing in the hall. "I still have what it takes to do the job."

She laughed in his face.

"No, you don't and you know it. That's why you tried to mix it up with Lieutenant Cutler. It was a lame attempt to prove you can still run with the young guys. I watched the security footage; I know what happened. After Cutler knocked you flat on your ass, you struggled to your feet like a crippled giraffe. You didn't win that fight. You didn't hit Cutler. He fell over laughing at your efforts."

For a moment, John lost sight of her, so strong was the memory of Cutler's fist striking his face, the white explosion behind his eyes, the uncontrolled tumble backward to the floor. He blinked and the hallway returned. Otten still stood before him, so close he could see the tense tremble of muscles ready to fight.

_Close enough to hear her thoughts… insecure, loser, not bright, now lame and crippled… I'm not those things… I know I'm not… people want to work with me… except Fin… people trust me… except Don…._

"You're awfully quiet, Detective, What's wrong—having a stroke?"

Rage pounded in his ears and chest, coursed through his veins and exploded in his brain.

"You bitch!"

John shoved Otten backward. She stumbled, teetering on her heels, and snagged his cuff with her left hand. Her right hand then wrapped around his index finger and twisted it back on his wrist.

Pain shot up his arm and his knees wobbled under him. John grabbed the front of her jacket and yanked his hand free of her grasp.

"Hey! Hey—stop that!"

A blur of dark blue forced himself between them. John pulled his fist back to strike the newcomer.

_Uniform, dark skin, shaved head… Taylor…shit, he works with us…he'll tell Don…._

John let his arm fall to his side. Patrol Officer Taylor stood between him and Otten, his hands out to stop them if the fight started again.

"What the hell is the matter with you two?" he asked.

Otten let out a long, raspy breath.

"I said something," she told Taylor. "and Munch took it wrong. Too much pressure, not enough patience."

She spoke so contritely that Taylor took it as an apology. He nodded at her then turned to face Munch. The second his back was turned, she smirked at Munch

_Two can play this game…._

"Fighting like kids in a school yard," Taylor groused at them. "You want Cragen to see you like this?"

"No," said Munch. "I don't. Otten's right, definitely not enough professionalism."

Behind Taylor's back, her lip cųrled into a snarl at his slur.

"Obviously, we're not ourselves right now," Munch continued. "I'm sorry we put you through this, Taylor, and I appreciate your helping out."

"S'okay," the officer replied. "The stress gets to all of us sooner or later. You two going to be all right?"

Munch showed some teeth and nodded. Otten matched the nod with an equally phony smile.

"Good. I'd hate to have you two face the rats for something stupid like this."

They both nodded. As soon as Taylor rounded the corner, Munch followed him to the squadroom, counting each step to keep them all matched and even.

_See that, Otten? No limp… _

He fell into his chair and glared at the case files scattered before him.

_Next time… next time, Otten—I win… whatever it takes… I win…._

Enroute to Eratais Management  
3 July

Stabler stopped in front of the 181st Street Bakery at ten minutes before seven. John was on the sidewalk, a paper bag from the deli in one hand, his other holding a cardboard container with four coffee cups.

"Eggs on rolls okay?" he asked as he slid into the passenger seat.

"With catsup?"

"Of course. How else would we get our recommended daily requirement of vegetables if it weren't for Reagan's favorite condiment?"

Elliot let the crack go unanswered. They drove to Fourteenth Street without further conversation, the local news and traffic from the radio filling the void. John consumed his egg sandwich and one cup of coffee while Elliot wolfed his down during traffic lights before he got on the Henry Hudson Parkway.

When they reached W. Fourteenth, Elliot parked three spaces east of the building and facing west. John approved his choice with a nod.

"Got the sun at our backs and a good view of her coming from the subway."

"All we need," Elliot replied, "is her."

He pulled from his suitcoat pocket the sketch made from Bridget Shanahan's description and propped it on the radio knobs. It depicted a woman in her early forties with shoulder-length hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. Bridget had chosen a narrow nose, thin eyebrows, a strong chin, and prominent cheekbones. The sketch artist had written in the appropriate feature colors: tanned skin, light brown hair, green eyes.

"C'mon, Madelyn," John said, "be a nice suspect and show up early today."

Both of them watched the oncoming foot traffic, both occasionally glancing at the rear view mirrors and the opposite sidewalk to keep alert and to keep from missing her if she arrived from an unexpected direction.

After five minutes, Elliot broke the silence.

"Kathy called last night."

"Oh?"

Elliot stifled a grin.

"You'll go cross-eyed trying to watch for our suspect while staring at me."

"All right. I'll watch; you talk. What did Kathy say?"

Elliot shrugged. "Nothing much. Just that she's meeting with Audrey Jackson one-on-one today. If it goes well, she'll seriously consider couples counseling."

He braced himself for John's reaction.

_A couple of blinks, a deep breath, the right corner of his mouth twitched up… odds are he'll say something nasty to hide the fact he's happy about it…._

"That's great, Elliot. I hope it works out."

"Yeah. Me, too."

_Except it's a scary thought… being on my own the past couple months gave me a lot of time to think… realize how much of this is my fault… and how much is Kathy's… she could have spoken up sooner… loud sighs and refusing to talk didn't tell me how much my silence hurt her… but where is the line between communication and too much info about what I see? I thought I knew where it was… guess I didn't…._

"Is that her?"

Elliot refocused on the sidewalk west of Eratais Management. Coming toward them was a woman in a peach knee-length skirt, a beige cotton top, and clogs. Her light brown hair was pulled back at her neck and a tan leather bucket bag hung from her left shoulder. In her right hand was a ring of keys.

"Looks good to me."

Elliot opened his door and moved around the hood to the sidewalk. John pocketed the sketch before joining him there. They walked in tandem, their pace timed to meet the suspect one building west of her destination.

_Just out of range of that security camera…._

"Excuse me!"

Elliot caught the woman's gaze and held up his shield.

"NYPD. We need to ask you a few questions."

The woman's puzzled frown didn't slow Stabler's approach. Confident that John was right behind him, he came to a stop by the door of the vintage clothing shop.

"I'm kinda in a hurry," the woman said. "What do you need?"

The woman's voice was alto and flat—Midwestern accent, not local. Elliot slid his shield into his pocket and pulled out his notepad.

"I'm Detective Stabler; this is Detective Munch," he said. "Let's start with your name and home address."

She reached into her bag. Elliot pocketed his pen, keeping his hand free in case he needed to draw his weapon. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John make sure the buttons on his suit coat were unfastened.

"Tracy Edwards. I live on North Broadway in Yonkers."

She held out a small wallet, its flap loose to show her driver's license. Elliot confirmed her address.

"Ms Edwards, do you work around here?"

Edwards stiffened at the question.

"Yes."

"Where?"

Her gaze shifted from Elliot to the building behind him.

"I work in an office down the street."

Elliot ignored the evasion and tipped his head in John's direction.

"Would you look at this police sketch then tell me if you've seen anyone matching the description?"

John held out the folded McClure sketch and let Edwards unfold it. Her eyes widened and she swallowed hard before handing it back to him with a shake of her head.

"Ms Edwards," Munch asked. "Do you know a woman named Bridget Shanahan? Perhaps you visited her apartment?"

Edwards took a full step back. Elliot quickly moved to her side and placed a hand above her elbow.

"Running in those shoes is a bad idea, Madelyn. Why don't you come to the precinct with us? You can explain why you're helping a rapist avoid prosecution."

Edwards had come with them voluntarily, but once inside the interrogation room, she demanded a lawyer then shut up. John sent the sketch she had handled to the lab for a fingerprint run while Elliot had Ted Reyes call the PD's office and the DA's SVU Bureau.

Ninety minutes later, the two detectives and SVU Bureau Chief Beale stood in the observation room watching Tracy Edwards and the public defender assigned to her case. The attorney was Caucasian, late twenties, bushy light brown hair cut shoulder-length, wearing a off-white pants suit with a tobacco-colored blouse. Beale had put a name to her: Cammack Landis-Otten.

"They're talking like girls with parent-paid cell phones," Elliot commented.

"Spoken like a father who's been there," John said.

"And like a man committing gender harassment."

Beale wagged his finger at Elliot.

"Don't repeat that in Cammie's hearing. She'll rip your balls off and return them wrapped in a lawsuit."

"Fun woman," John muttered to Elliot. "Must be related to our Otten."

Beale pointed at Edwards.

"You two are certain that Eratais Management is involved in helping sex offenders get false IDs?"

John looked at the ceiling, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of cracks in the plaster. Elliot sighed through clenched teeth.

_Beale is Casey's boss… I don't want to tell him how shaky this, but holding back info from the DA's office always bites us in the end…._

"It's weak," he admitted. "Sikkens had a false ID and was living in a building managed by Eratais. Shanahan's rape could be 'she said-he said'; Sikkens has emphysema and my partn—Detective Benson believed for a while that he wasn't capable of overpowering and raping her. But Tracy Edwards deceived the victim into recanting and she works for Eratais, so it all seems to tie together."

The hallway door opened and Captain Cragen entered. He was in shirtsleeves with his tie loose around his neck.

"They still at it? We could have ordered and eaten a four-course meal in the time they're taking."

As though she heard his complaint, Landis-Otten looked at the one-way glass and beckoned them in. Beale held the door as the rest filed in. He took a seat across from the two women. Cragen stood next to him. Elliot and John took positions on either side of the door to observe.

'My client will tell you everything you want to know," the public defender told Beale. "In return, she wants full immunity, protection until the trial or trials are over, and a plane ticket back home."

"Where's home?" Cragen asked.

Edwards opened her mouth, but Landis-Otten answered for her.

"Hot Springs, Arkansas. She's never mentioned it at work, so she thinks she'll be safe there."

Beale folded his arms and leaned back as he considered the offer.

"No; not until I hear something worth hearing. What does Ms Edwards know?"

This time, Tracy Edwards spoke first.

"I know everything—who makes the fake ID cards, where they get the data to make them, how they get clients, what other services they provide—I'll tell you everything."

"Why?"

Elliot stepped forward. Cragen glared at him, but Elliot ignored him.

"Why?" Edwards echoed. "Because I'm okay with helping people preserve their right to live free of government intrusion. Yes, these people are sex offenders, but they all paid their debt to society. After they get out of prison, people find them in on-line sex offender registries and harass them and hurt them. They get banned from entire neighborhoods and towns because of residency restrictions. Some of them can't live with family members because they have to stay away from children, including their own nieces and nephews. All any of them want to do is get on with their lives and you make it impossible."

She was yelling by the time she finished. Elliot watched her check each of their faces then wilt under their disapproval.

"I'm okay with that," she said again, "but I'm not okay with helping them rape and molest again. That's what I did when I lied to that woman. My boss told me it was a trumped-up charge and she only wanted to get Albert Sikkens evicted, but that's not true. I got lied to and she got hurt. I have to fix that, make it up to her, and… well, try and stay out of jail myself."

Beale nodded then stood up. Cragen, Stabler, and Munch followed him from the room.

"That sounds like enough to me. How about you, Don? You and your people okay with this?"

Cragen didn't bother to ask Elliot or John before agreeing.

"Good. I'll have my office arrange housing for Ms Edwards while we draw up the pertinent paperwork."

He turned to Munch and Stabler.

"You two want to keep the case?"

"Damn right we do," Elliot answered.

"Good. As soon as we get Ms Edwards somewhere safe, you can interview her. Once we have everything we need, we'll raid Eratais."

Office of Lt. Anita Van Buren  
Twenty-seventh Precinct  
3 July

Van Buren called Fontana into her office the second he arrived for his shift. Green's wide-eyed stare tracked his partner's path across the squadroom, but Van Buren did not satisfy his curiosity. She closed the door behind them and observed the senior detective as he settled into a chair.

_I don't care what Fontana says he paid for it, he found that tie in a Dumpster... no one's worn blue mod flowers since I was in grade school.... _

"Well?" she asked.

Fontana hid behind her least favorite of his expressions, the annoyingly smug smile.

"Well what, Lieutenant?"

Van Buren leaned against her desk and folder her arms across her chest.

"You call me at home. You take time from my family with questions about how to handle your love life, and you don't think I deserve to know how things went?"

His eyebrows shifted upward.

"Oh, that. I thought you wanted to talk about the Leung case."

She pursed her lips and aimed her strongest glare at him.

"What about the Leung case?" she asked.

"Nothing, nothing. Me and Ed are working hard on it. Besides, you asked how things went with Judith."

She frowned, but his smugness held fast.

"Yes, I did," she admitted. "You said she invited you to her house for a friendly interrogation. How did it do?"

_It's a brilliant idea, Otten forcing you to display your dirty laundry for her... I'm betting there were heaps of it all over the place...._

"It went fine, just fine. I answered every question completely honestly, just like you suggested. I even brought copies of my financial statements and my medical history, just in case she asked."

Anita considered asking if he had included his public heath record, but decided it was too cheap a shot to take.

"And... ?" she prompted.

"Well, Judith asked a bunch of very pointed questions and some of my answers made her eyes bug out. That surprised me. She's worked Vice and Homicide and now Sex Crimes so nothing I've done in my past should shock her."

Anita leaned back, a reflex response to that bit of data.

_Maybe I don't want to hear about his dirty laundry...._

"So what happened next?" she asked.

Fontana leaned back in his chair and beamed at her.

"Judith said she was going to consider the matter very carefully then give me an answer."

"That sounds more like a brush-off."

His smile widened.

"Not at all. I keep telling you and Ed that this is a done deal. Hell, even Frank Sinatra approves of it."

Anita opened her mouth to question his last comment.

_Do I really want to know? What if his insanity is catchy?_

Instead, she said, "Fine. Now, tell me about the Leung case."

Ninth Avenue north of the Port Authority Bus Terminal  
5 July

Tammy shared a 2/1.5 in Queens; Fred had a place to himself ten blocks away so the partners took turns driving the commute. Since Fred had the driving duties for Independence Day, he left the station house and drove north while Tammy slouched in his passenger seat.

"Slow shift," she said. "Just the way I like them."

"No calls, no walk-ins, not even a false alarm," Fred noted. "Just eight hours of watching Olivia doing paperwork and Judith obsessing over the Dykeman case. Here's hoping this continues for the rest of the month."

His partner's big sigh matched his own.

"I'm keeping my fingers crossed," she said. "Twenty-six days and we're gone."

"Won't be too soon. Place is falling apart around us. Get your assignment yet?

Tammy nodded. "SID, the Joint Bank Robbery Task Force. You still heading to the Investigation Squad?"

"Yep. DIS—the opposite of you."

It took Tammy almost a block to puzzle out the joke.

"Okay—reversed acronyms. How'd you get in with the city corruption police?"

"Ted Phelps is the C.O. there. He and my dad go a long ways back and he—"

Tammy interrupted him by pointing at the upcoming intersection.

'Hey—stop at that bodega there. I need some milk for breakfast."


	17. Hurricane: part one

A/N: Nota Bene: this is an Alternative Universe story. Although I strive for verisimilitude, this story does not depict accurately the procedures and customs of the NYPD.

Lucky Food Store  
647 9th Avenue  
5 July

The 911 call came in at thirty-nine minutes after midnight. By the time Fontana arrived on the scene, the CSU teams were at work and officers from Midtown South had the lookie-loos pushed back behind the tape and barricades.

Lucky Food Store filled the ground floor of a narrow brick three-story; the view through its two windows and glass door were obscured by displays and advertising posters. As Joe was locking his Mercedes, Ed hailed him from across the street; Joe waited for his partner to catch up with him.

"I hate being on-call after a day-off," Ed groused. "It messes with my internal clock."

"I know what you mean," Joe replied. "We should be arriving from our beds or from the precinct, not from a holiday picnic."

Ed gave his partner's Gucci loafers, bandbox-fresh shirt, and mauve striped tie the once-over.

"You were at a picnic dressed like that?"

"Figure of speech, Ed. I was merely agreeing with you."

Ned O'Keefe, the mustached sergeant guarding the shop's entrance, waved the detectives over to him.

"We got four down in there," he said. "Two of them are ours."

The friendly greeting Joe had prepared for the sergeant died on his tongue.

"Who?" he asked.

"Don't know—we haven't touched anything yet. Both had their weapons drawn and you can see a gold shield on the belt under the female. There's also a .22 near one of the other victims. We're assuming the one behind the counter is the clerk."

O'Keefe reached for the door handle. Neither detective moved.

_Say something else, O'Keefe... give us more info... expound on your theory of the crime... anything to postpone our walking in and seeing two cops dead on the floor...._

Joe's wish went unfulfilled when the sergeant pulled open the door.

Inside the store, three bodies lay in a line from entrance to counter. Nearest the door was a female, her ash blonde hair soaked with blood and a 9mm Glock still clutched in both hands. Next was a lanky blond male in his late teens, his wife-beater undershirt dark with his blood. The .22 mentioned by the sergeant lay between him and the third victim, a thickset man in a navy sport coat who, by his position on the floor, had been on the woman's right facing the shooter when hit in his throat and face. His weapon lay just beyond his outstretched hand.

Green stepped over to the counter. The body crumpled behind it was male, Pakistani, mid-fifties.

"One in the chest, one in the throat," Ed called out.

Fontana let the photographer finish taking her photos before he rolled the female just enough to take the shield case from her belt. He handed it to his partner then he searched the jacket pockets of the male for his shield. He opened that case then held it out for Green to take.

Not one of the officers and techs present said anything, a moment of silence for their own.

Joe spoke first.

"Tell me there's a working security camera."

"We're getting it set up for you," the photographer answered.

Green turned to O'Keefe.

"Call Captain Cragen, Manhattan SVU. Tell him it's Fred Tierney and Tammy White."

Fontana let his partner take primary, ceding without argument any media visibility and notice from One P.P. that would result from a good, fast close.

_Some things are more important...._

While Green coordinated the investigation, handled the brass who came by to "make sure everything was under control," and talked to the unlucky customer who found the bodies, Fontana and CSU tech Mark Dill squeezed into a tiny office containing a desk, office chair, one file cabinet, and a security system with monitor.

Joe leaned against the wall while Dill slid into the chair and punched a few buttons. The monitor then displayed a grainy view of the store, time-stamped 07/05/2007 00:17:19. Another button pushed and the tape ran forward in real-time.

_Muhammad Bashir, the clerk, stocking cigarettes behind his counter. Several people enter in quick succession: a Latino couple with a baby in a carry-tote, two teen-aged boys and a younger kid... all of the Caucasian persuasion... kid's ten, maybe eleven with a good crop of freckles, wearing a t-shirt and light-colored cargo shorts ... one older boy, dark hair and a try at a moustache, wearing a dark t-shirt and baggy denim shorts... the undershirt on the last boy marks him as the dead guy by the .22... the couple heads left out of camera range... Dark Tee follows them... the kid heads up the candy aisle and out of sight—one camera and it only shows the cash register and front door, not the rest of the store... our guy goes for the magazines between the door and the counter... the couple comes back into camera range with a gallon of milk... they buy a lottery ticket with their milk and leave—they have no idea how lucky they already are... Dark Tee is next... he pays for three Red Bulls with a twenty and leaves... Undershirt at the magazine rack looks around.. Bashir resumes his stocking... Undershirt looks around again... he turns toward the counter... he pulls out the .22... and there's Tierney and White coming through the door... no… no... I don't want to watch this...._

But he did, each and every grainy frame, first at normal speed then again in slo-motion, watching as the two detectives realized what was going down and took action. White had her weapon out first. Joe saw her lips form the words, "Police—drop your weapon!" while Tierney jinked right to box Undershirt in.

That frame stayed in Joe's brain, vivid and crystal clear: Bashir, hands-up behind his counter, a grin spreading across his face as he realized he was safe. Tammy, facing the camera, her full attention on Undershirt, whose slack-jawed stare at the muzzle of her weapon kept him from noticing Fred swing into position.

The muzzle flashes came in groups of three, their source blocked from view by a display at the end of the second aisle from the camera—on White's left, even with Undershirt. One bullet passed behind White to hit a rack of potato chips; the next two caught her under her right ear and eye. Two more hit the snack food, then one struck Undershirt left center chest. By that time, Tierney was turning to bear on the shooter; the next three shots hit his throat and upper lip.

Bashir was the only one with time to fully react. His joyous grin melted as he stepped back and hunched forward to dive under the counter, a move cut short by the bullets entering his chest and throat.

_Upward trajectory on every one... that means—no, it couldn't mean…._

The muzzle appeared first, then the weapon, a Beretta 93R held in a grip formed by two half-grown hands. The kid lowered the pistol and spent a moment staring at the three bodies before him. He said something—one word, maybe two syllables, then he pocketed the Beretta and left at a run.

"Back it up to where the kid's coming into the store—there, that full-face view. I want that cleaned up and printed as fast as you can."

Dill nodded. "We'll capture the image and get you as many copies as you need."

"Good man."

The words were an afterthought. Joe's attention was back on the video, watching again as Tierney and White entered the store.

_You did it by the book… no hesitation, no screw-ups… as picture-perfect as can be… you did nothing to deserve getting blindsided by some punk kid…._

Joe then carried the tape to one of CSU's vans, where he observed its duplication and the printing of the suspect's photo. He then watched the tape four more times, once with Green and O'Keefe, twice with Captain Cragen and Chief of Detectives Conrad, and once with Commissioner Richardson and acting Chief of Department Terence Fulton.

_Chain of custody... until I sign it over as evidence, I have to account for its whereabouts every second—not just its location, but everyone who could have or does lay a hand on it... I'm the guarantee that no one monkeys with the record of Tierney and White's last moments on Earth... that how it went down is accurate and true…._

When he finally returned to the store, the M.E.'s assistants were bagging Undershirt. A line of small plastic cones diverted everyone entering the shop down the far aisle to keep them from crossing the actual crime scene. He stepped over them to join his partner, who was standing in the aisle where the shooter had been.

Fontana pointed at the half-zippered body bag.

"You get an ID on him?"

Ed held out his notepad.

"Timothy Weston, nineteen, lives on West Fifty-second. I'm ready to do the notify, just waiting on you...."

Ed's voice trailed off as his partner's attention went to the two pools of blood left on either side of Weston.

_Tammy's hair flying up as the bullet exits her skull…._

Joe shuddered then turned back to his partner.

"I see the M.E. took them first."

Ed nodded.

"Benson rode with them," he said. "Captain Cragen, Sofarelli, and Otten are notifying Tierney's parents. His father works Evidence Control at the Pearson Place Warehouse. He's due to retire in November."

_Fred flinching when the first round hits his partner...._

"Damn. What about White?"

"Her folks live in Utica—upstate about four hours. Captain Cragen contacted the police chief up there. He'll make that call as soon as someone's with them."

"And Bashir?"

"Van Buren is handling that for us; she'll see if the store's been having any trouble with kids. The Chief of Dees called in both Midtown squads; they took the photos Dill made and they're out looking for the kid."

"You got anyone checking out Berettas yet? A 93R isn't your average street piece."

"Yeah, we're working that, too. You get anything else from the video?"

Joe's attention drifted back to the floor.

_Nightmares...._

"Eyestrain and this."

He held up the photo showing the kid entering the store.

"Meet our shoo—"

Ed interrupted him with an hand on his arm.

"You need to know," he whispered, "the brass decided not to tell anyone the kid's the shooter, not even SVU. Until we hear otherwise, he's only a possible witness."

"Van Buren and Cragen sign off on it?"

Ed nodded.

"Fine. If those are the rules, then that's how we'll play it."

Fontana cleared his throat.

"Meet our possible witness. Ten, maybe eleven years old, hair worn over the ears—could be light brown or red, given the freckles. Judging from the display next to him, he's about four feet, nine inches tall and skinny."

Ed examined the photo carefully.

"He's wearing about $300 on his feet—those are MaXX Stratospheres. Rich kid slumming, you think?"

Joe made a note about the shoes.

"We don't find him through the canvas or the Beretta," he said, "we'll try tracking his shoes. Let's go find Weston's next of kin."

Ed nodded, but neither of them moved until Weston's body was carried out and they could view the scene with the hindrance of techs and assistants.

"Kids shooting, killing," Ed said. "That's just wrong."

"I don't care how young he is," Joe replied. "He killed cops. In my book, he's old enough to fry."

Joe looked one last time at the blood drying on the floor.

_Fred, Tammy, this I promise… no matter what the brass decides and does, I will get him for you…._

Residence of Patrick and Alma Tierney  
91-04 219th St  
Queens Village, NY  
5 July

"It's part of the job. It happens, but it always to some other guy—or gal. Not to me. Not to Freddie."

Patrick Tierney sat in his leather easy chair, hunched over, hands hanging limp between his knees. His voice, hoarse from decades of smoking and raw from stress, barely made it across the small living room to the sofa where Cragen and Couch were. The cotton robe he wore over his blue pajamas proved their arrival had awakened him.

Judith was in the entryway where the Tierneys kept their home phone. The antique telephone table had a small cushioned seat; perched on it, she was as close to Tierney as Cragen was, but she also could field phone calls.

_That phone started ringing right after we got here—reporters wanting Tierney's reaction to his son's death... reporters hoping to tell him about his son's death—bastards... fellow cops hearing the news through the grapevine... and his wife is at the shore with her daughter and her grandkids... I'm glad Judith offered to stay with Tierney… no way he should have to deal with this alone...._

"Freddie and I were going to drive out to the cottage Jim rented when he finished his shift Thursday night... we both have Friday and Saturday off... spend the weekend, all of us... Freddie and our daughter Kate, her husband Jim, their kids, Alma and me... a nice family weekend at the shore...."

Tierney's voice rasped to a halt so he could wipe his nose with a handkerchief.

"I know you mean well, but could you leave now? I have to call Alma and Kate. I have call my mother. I have to...."

Cragen finished Tierney's sentence to himself.

_I have to cry and I don't want to in front of strangers...._

Cragen stood up and took a step forward. He lay his hand on Tierney's shoulder and expressed his condolences again.

"You need anything…."

Tierney did not look up.

"I need anything, you'll be there. Freddie said that was the best thing about serving under you. You stand up for your people."

The phone rang. Judith caught it before the first trill ended.

"Tierney residence. No, we don't have a comment for the Ledger. Yes, I'll pass that message on."

She made a note in a fresh notepad she had placed by the phone. Cragen stopped on his way out the door.

"You okay here?" he asked.

Judith nodded. "I've done this before. In an hour or two, friends will arrive; family will come home. I'll leave when they get here. People want the familiar when they mourn, not strangers."

Cragen nodded then he followed Sofarelli outside. There, he handed the younger man the keys to his Buick.

"Mind driving?"

Couch took the keys from him then Cragen slid into the right-hand seat.

_First time I've been driven in my own car…._

They were on I-495 heading west before Cragen spoke again.

"That's how a notification is done. You go in and be sympathetic, truthful, understanding. Don't promise to catch the perp. Don't promise they'll pay for their crimes. Don't say too much—no one needs all the details of how their loved one died. It's bad enough we know how it went down."

"That's why you called me in," Couch asked, "so I could observe you do this?"

"Partly. If you're going to command, then you need to know this. Fumbling through your first one hurts you and whoever you're notifying."

"And the other part?"

Cragen put his head back against the headrest and sighed.

"There' s a reason we don't leave our own alone, even if they ask us to. We're social creatures; we need companionship. Tierney will head to another room to cry, but he'll come out afterward and want to talk about his son. Judith knows Fred, knows what he did today, what he said—happier facts than those you and I gave him. She's there to listen and share while Tierney talks about his son."

Couch slacked off on the gas pedal. The long searching look he gave his CO told Cragen that the younger man had picked up the real reason he had been included.

_I'm a social creature, too… I lost two good people today… I didn't want to drive back by myself…._

"You've done a lot of these?"

"One is too many. Worst one wasn't a notification. One of my detectives at the Two-Seven was an old partner of mine. He was shot execution-style in front of his house; his wife saw it through the front window. Sitting with Marie that night while they worked Max's murder out in the street…."

_…that was as close to Hell as I ever want to get…._

His phone rang. Cragen took it from his pocket and let it ring once more before answering.

"Cragen... Captain Reger? Yes, just a moment."

He rested the hand holding the phone on the car's console and fought the urge to hand it off to Sofarelli.

_…no one should have to do two of these in one night… to calmly bring this news to people who don't deserve the pain... to ignore my own grief so I can be strong for strangers...._

"Want me to pull over?" Couch asked.

Cragen shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

He put the phone back to his ear.

"Mr. White? This is Captain Donald Cragen. I am sorry, but what Captain Reger told you about Tammy is true…."

Residence of Jacqui Russo  
428 W. 52nd Street  
Manhattan  
5 July

Timothy Weston's home address led Fontana and Green to a four-story brick building across from the ambulance entrance to St. Vincent's Midtown Hospital. The building was in good repair, its woodwork and plaster unmarred by chips and graffiti, stair treads intact and solid under their feet as they climbed to the third floor. Mrs. Russo, Weston's mother, had eyed them over the chain lock, and examined both their shields and IDs before letting them in.

Now she sat in a nubby brown couch, spine straight, chin raised, so still that her heartbeat rocked her back and forth as she tried to comprehend the news. Her two younger children—Ben, male, fourteen years old, in boxer shorts, and Samantha, female, twelve years, wearing an oversized gray T-shirt, sat as ramrod straight on either side of her.

_Their brother's body being zipped into a body bag...._

"Some stranger shot him," Mrs. Russo finally said, "not to stop him from robbing the place, but to kill everyone there. Why?"

"We don't know why yet, Mrs. Russo," Green said. "All we know is that your son, two police detectives, and the store clerk were killed."

A moment of silence followed by an elbow jab to his arm warned Joe that Ed expected him to show the photo now. He pulled it from his inside jacket pocket and unfolded it.

"There may be a witness," he said, "who can help answer your question. Do you recognize this person?"

Mrs. Russo jerked her head left until the photo was in her vision range.

"No. Never saw him before. He's too little to be one of Tim's friends."

"Ben, Samantha—do either of you know this boy?"

The older child shook his head immediately. Samantha looked at the photo for a second before whispering, "No."

Joe refolded the photo and put it back in his jacket pocket.

"Is there anyone we can call for you?" Green asked. "Someone you'd like to have stay with you?"

"My husband, Jake—Tim's step-dad. He's a trauma nurse at the hospital."

Ed got his phone out and she recited the number. While Ed gave him the news, Joe expressed his condolences again to the family. Three pairs of moist eyes stared back at him with a need so great that he had to clench his teeth to keep from promising to bring them Timothy Weston's murderer.

_His head on a platter would get me in trouble with damn near everyone, but I'm not doing the 'coddle the kid 'cause he's young and innocent' crap... innocent kids don't use sixteen-thousand dollar handguns to kill cops...._

"Your husband says he'll come right home," Ed announced. "We have to ask him the same questions we asked you, but then we'll be out of your way."

Mrs. Russo turned to stare at him.

"You haven't been in our way. Considering why you're here, you've been... you've been...."

The tears welled up and she began to sob. Ben wrapped his arms around her while Samantha bolted from the sofa and rushed down the hall, returning immediately with a box of tissues. She put them on the coffee table in front of her mother then spun around to face the detectives.

"Tim didn't rob the place," she said. "Maybe he thought about it, but he didn't really do it—right?"

Joe and Ed exchanged glances.

_Cold comfort... knowing your brother didn't commit a crime because someone killed him first... but that does mean they will remember Timothy as a good son and brother...._

"No, darling," Joe answered. "Your brother didn't rob the store. You're right about that."

She attempted a smile to thank them for the info before she returned to her mother's side.

"It's something for her to hang onto," Ed whispered.

_Tammy's hands tight around the grip of her weapon ... hanging on as if for dear life...._

"Yeah—some comfort, anyway."

SVU Squadroom  
5 July

_I hate sunrises... seen too damn many of them after all-night stakeouts... a brand new day starting out beautiful… today, it's just wrong…._

Fin left the ceiling lights off so only the pale morning light through the tall windows illuminated the two desks before him.

_Sometime this morning, someone will set their official photos on their desks... the photos that will hang on the precinct's memorial wall... someone will put flowers by those photos and black ribbons on the frames... we'll talk quiet near them... feel Fred and Tammy not being here with us... we'll talk about things they did, things they said... we'll talk about how they were good people... how honored we are to have served with them...._

Fin stood by his chair and stared at the two vacant desks, looking at but not seeing Tammy's pink coffee mug and Fred's framed ticket stubs from the final game of the 2005 World Series.

_All of it is true and it's good we say it... what we won't do is admit we're glad it was them and not us.... that won't get said even though it's also true...._

"Fin?"

He turned around to see Olivia leaning against the frame of the hall door. The wrinkles in her layered cotton tops, moss green over white, the dark circles under her eyes, and the slump of her shoulders told him of her exhaustion from sitting all night in uncomfortable chairs.

"You just come from the morgue?" he asked.

She nodded.

"They need anybody there?"

Olivia shook her head.

"John got there around four and Elliot arrived not long after. Couple of Fred's friends from the Thirteenth are there and Tammy's training officer from the 77th showed up just as I was leaving."

She glanced over at the empty desks and her mouth twisted

"I was there," she said. "I saw them. I rode with them. I watched Brodie wheel Tammy in and Rogers take Fred."

She fished a wad of tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose.

"But I expect them to be here cracking bad jokes and keeping their run of quick closes going. I know what happened and I still expect it to be different."

Fin felt his throat tighten in response to the grief in Olivia's hoarse voice.

"It's a shock," he replied, his own voice rough and unsteady. "When it happens, it's a shock."

Olivia blew her nose and dabbed her eyes before throwing the tissue wad forcefully into the waste basket.

"Damn, just… damn."

She turned and stalked toward the women's restroom. Fin watched her round the corner then turned back to his own desk.

_Might as well get some work done…._

After five minutes, he switched to Sue Lynde's desk and computer.

_Can't get anything done sitting where I can see their desks… I can't…._

By four p.m., both shifts were present for the shift meeting. Ted Reyes, one of the unit's admin assistants, had arranged the photos and flowers. Condolences were shared; stories were told as they began to process their grief.

"... so the Tierney method of coping with loss is to eat breakfast?"

Judith's sigh served as a "yes."

"A traditional Irish breakfast: bacon cooked in butter, eggs cooked in bacon grease, blood sausage, brown bread, grilled tomatoes," she recited. "I'm at the end of the assembly line, trying to avoid all the treif food, when I turn around to hand off a filled plate and there's Commissioner Richardson...."

By the coffee machine, Elliot was talking with Howie, Greg, and Sue.

"I hear there's a witness," Howie noted. "Some kid?"

"Yeah," Elliot replied. "Fontana and Green are dragging the city looking for him—so far no kid and no suspects."

"At least none being released to the media," John added as he pushed past Greg to grab a tea bag and some hot water. "I'm betting the kid is more than a 'possible witness.'"

"Give it a rest, Munch," Sue told him. "Fred and Tammy deserve better than your crackpot theories."

"Speaking of that," Elliot jumped in, "anyone know what the arrangements are yet?"

Captain Cragen answered that question at the shift meeting.

"MacAllisters is handing the arrangements for Fred. Viewing will be on the seventh from 2 to 5 p.m. and 7 to 9 p.m. Afterwards, there will be a wake at The Tap and Growler. His funeral Mass will be celebrated the next day, 11 a.m. at Saint Cecilia's in Queens Village with burial afterward."

Murmurs of approval greeting his announcement. A viewing, a good Irish wake, a funeral service and interment complete with honor guard, dress blues, pipes and drums—a chance to mourn and remember a fallen comrade in the traditional NYPD manner.

Cragen waited for the noise to die out.

"Mr. and Mrs. White do not plan any services for Tammy. She's to be cremated then shipped back home to Utica."

The news silenced the room. Cragen checked the expressions of those assembled before him.

_Shock, disbelief... everyone stunned... I don't blame them... we need to grieve... the ceremonies not only give us an outlet for our emotions, they remind us that we'll be mourned and remembered if we should die in the line of duty...._

Before the silent shock turned to vocal outrage, he continued.

"I've talked to the Tierneys. They're okay with Tammy being waked along with Fred and the tavern says they can accommodate her friends, too."

But it won't be enough....

Before him, glances were exchanged as everyone's stunned disbelief settled into frustration and anger, mostly from Tammy's shift.

"Tammy deserves more than that...."

"...it was line of duty—that should get her...."

"...full dress blues and gloves—hell, I'll wear the damn things for her...."

"That still ain't enough. We have to—"

Olivia interrupted Fin's protest.

"Sue and I are making arrangements with the Policewomen's Association for a memorial service for Tammy. We'll let you know more tomorrow—okay?"

The outrage settled into a low grumble. Cragen ended the meeting on that low note. As soon as his office door closed behind him, he checked that the venetian blinds were closed then he slumped back in his chair.

_I should have thought of that… shows what running on no sleep gets me… hard enough hiding the fact that there's a shooter somewhere in the wind… Fred and Tammy deserve Major Case, not Fontana and his Froot Loop ties… asshole couldn't find a freckle on his own butt, let alone a kid with a faceful of them… and what in Hell is a little kid doing killing two of my people?_

Again, as it had so many times that day, his gaze drifted to his right and down.

_Yeah, and it's still a bad idea… no oak leaves for me inside that vodka bottle…_

He grabbed a legal pad and a pen and began to outline, using stock phrases gleaned from past services.

_… honor their courage and dedication… even when off-duty, they didn't hesitate to put their own lives at risk… made the ultimate sacrifice…_

The pen hit the pad with a soft thud. The tear that followed it made almost no noise at all. Alone, where no one could see or hear, Don Cragen mourned the loss of two good people.

Out in the squadroom, Benson surveyed her surroundings.

_Elliot just pushed his computer screen over… Couch is sitting sideways at his desk, trying to balance two case folders and a legal pad on the narrow bit by the window… Fin slumped 'way down in his chair and has his papers propped in front of his face… all of them trying to keep from seeing the photos on Fred and Tammy's empty desks… Judith looks like hell… spending all night and morning helping out Fred's family must have wrung it out of her…._

She rose from her chair and walked to the two vacant desks. Brewster told her earlier that Cragen had forbidden the placement of tribute items on the desks. As Howie put it, "Cap doesn't want it to look like a floral delivery van wrecked a toy store."

_So Fred and Tammy get a tasteful, simple display… two lit candles in glass… two bouquets of leaves and purple flowers, one by each photo… why purple flowers?_

The answer came from behind her—John's voice, soft and gentle.

"The oak leaves are for bravery. Heliotrope means devotion and faithfulness."

He reached past her to point at Fred's candle.

"The candles symbolizes the flame of life that no longer burns in our fallen comrades. They also light us while we mourn them."

He stood stock still by her, his lips tight and his eyes hidden behind dark lenses.

"Too much death in this job," he continued. "Think it's too late to start hanging drywall for a living?"

"Huh?"

John shook his head. "Never mind. How awake are you?"

_Well… I've missed a night's sleep and my eyes keep tearing up…._

Olivia blinked twice in an effort to appear bright-eyed.

"I'll do. What do you need?"

"Not sure yet," John replied. "Elliot and I were planning to raid Erastais Management this evening. We want to strike before they start wondering if Tracy Edwards' sick days are legit or not. Now, with everything else that's happened…."

He indicated the two empty desks by tapping on Tammy's with his fingertips.

"Not just them being gone, but you and Otten were up all night and Couch is scheduled to meet with some of Robbery's CIs on the Dykeman cases. That leaves only Fin at full capacity."

"And me," Olivia stated. "I caught enough sleep this afternoon. I'm in."

"Good. I'll relay that to Elliot and Cragen."

He headed to the captain's office while Olivia returned to her desk.

_More messages from the Cutters threatening lawsuits if I don't give them Brian Boylston's name… give it up, guys… message from Dave Viks at ACS re: Simma Woolridge… shit, that's Fred and Tammy's last case—the woman trying to trap Boylston so she could send him back to prison… Viks must be her boss…._

Benson dialed Viks' phone number and left a message to call her cell number the next morning.

_Now, to keep busy until we raid Erastais… keep busy… keep occupied… keep from thinking about how an errand on the way home can change everything…._


	18. Hurricane: part two

Author's Note: LOD = line of duty

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
7 July

"Hey—it's on!"

Couch pointed the remote at the glass wall by his desk and turned up the sound. Judith, Fin and Olivia swung their chairs to face it while everyone else found spots on empty chairs and desktops. No one profaned Fred's or Tammy's desks with their posteriors.

Above Couch's head, the center screen showed Commissioner Richardson at the podium in One Police Plaza's second-floor press room. Behind him stood an array of NYPD brass; at his right, Captain Cragen stood with Elliot and John.

"The evening of July fifth," Richardson announced, "detectives and patrol officers from our Manhattan Special Victims Unit raided the offices of Erastais Management on West Fourteenth Street. Information had been obtained by Manhattan SVU that this company was forging false identifications and providing them to convicted pedophiles, rapists, and sex criminals."

The commissioner gazed sternly into the camera, which gave the reporters before him time to take notes.

"These faked IDs allowed the convicted felons to avoid the conditions of their paroles, to ignore state and federal sex crime registries, and to evade residential restrictions put in place to keep those convicted of sex crimes far away from schools, playgrounds and neighborhoods in which children reside...."

After Richardson finished speaking, Chief of Detective Conrad spoke a few words before introducing Captain Cragen, who explained the details of the raid and its results.

"...and we found records showing that Erastais Management had provided fake IDs to over 250 criminals in fifteen states, including the state of New York. Fifty-seven of those with false IDs live within the five boroughs of New York City...."

"That should scare the citizens of our fair city," Judith noted.

Olivia smiled at the thought.

"Maybe I should say 'lived,' Cragen continued. "Thanks to the information uncovered at Erastais, all fifty-seven of them are now in police custody...."

Olivia's smile stretched into a grin.

_That was worth all the hard work the past two days... nothing like the entire team kicking in a few doors to brighten a horrible day...._

She glanced over to the framed photos on Fred's and Tammy's desks and felt her throat close up.

_Wish you two had been with us... stuff like this was right up your alley...._

A swig of coffee and a hard swallow helped the lump go away. She then turned her attention back to the TV, where Cragen was introducing Elliot and John.

"They don't look anywhere near as tired as I feel," Couch said.

Fin shot him a withering glare of pity at his ignorance.

"It's makeup," he growled. "The brass don't want you looking like you work for your busts. They want you handsome and glamorous."

"Spoken like someone who's been there, been powdered with that."

Olivia's quip earned her a snarl from Fin.

"Never mind how they look," he said, "they're both dragging bad as us—so's Cap'n if you look hard enough."

Benson checked the captain's image on the screen.

_Nope... he looks ecstatic... like someone who can feel promotion waiting for him right around the corner... hell, with a bust this big, he might actually do it...._

"Looks like a new suit to me," Judith said around a stifled yawn. "And like he's been working out."

Olivia took a closer look.

_Damn, she's right... shows how tired I am, missing an upgrade like that... if I didn't know he is angling for oak leaves, I'd say he had a girlfriend…._

Fin bolted upright in his chair.

"I thought this was Elliot's case," he said. "How come Munch is taking the credit?"

Olivia looked at the clock.

"That blur you see in the background," she said, "is Elliot skating out of there. He's late for an appointment. I saw the request in the paperwork he dumped on me."

Her phone rang.

_Please don't be a case… we'll all running on empty… one shift without calls—that's all I ask…._

"Manhattan SVU—Benson…yes, I got the info together… an hour will be fine…. Okay…. 'bye."

She fished a folder from the stack on her desk and stared at it.

_Simma Woolridge's info for her boss, Dave Viks… he wants it for his own internal investigation—see if more case workers are playing the entrapment game… trouble is, this info included the name of her victim… the same Brian Boylston who Daniel and Amanda Cutter are threatening to sue us about… Cragen said to word everything so that the two cases aren't obviously the same… since no one remembers mentioning Woolridge in the Cutters' presence, we should be okay…._

Olivia shook her head over the folder. Four hours of crib time did not cancel out two nights of little to no sleep. She felt wooly-brained and slow. The concealed but still huge yawns from Judith and two of the uniforms were not helping matters.

"Judith, Taylor, Gina," she called out, "you guys want to crash first? I figure we can take turns if the shift stays quiet."

The older woman and the two patrol officers wasted no time pondering the question.

"Happily," Judith replied. "See you in an hour."

The three headed for the crib and Benson swung around to face Fin. Behind her, the press conference wound down with closing remarks from Chief Conrad.

"Fin," she asked. "You want the next hour?"

Tutuola finished using his eye drops before answering.

"You going by age, beauty, or tiredness?"

"That's a loaded question and I'm not answering it," she replied, softening the words with a smile. "If you're awake enough, then I'll go myself."

In unison, they looked over at Couch, the only other detective in the room. He had his partner's cell phone in one hand and a sheet of scrap paper in the other.

"He'll do long enough to get you, me, and John down for a while," Olivia said. "I don't expect Elliot for a couple of hours and Cragen already told me he probably won't be back this evening."

She expected Fin's usual scowl at that news so the anger that darkened his face surprised her. He slammed the bottle of drops on his desk hard enough to swing everyone's attention in his direction.

"With everything that's gone down?" he demanded. "He should be here, not out blowing the brass like a 'ho needing one more before morning!"

Around the room, officers and staff gaped at his outburst then, one by one, heads began to nod and people began to mutter.

_Oh, shit… everyone's agreeing with him…._

Only Sofarelli failed to join the chorus. Olivia saw him eyeing the people around him with the same wariness that she felt. When his attention turned her way, she dropped her hand below her desktop and pointed at him then back to her, a quick movement asking that they work together.

_Clue into this, Couch… back me up…._

"Isn't that part of being the C.O.?" he asked, his voice carrying across the room. "They bend over for the brass so we don't have to."

He glanced around, catching Benson's gaze the longest, then shrugged as though that were the only explanation. Olivia gave him a quick nod.

_Good boy… I owe you a beer…._

"Yeah, " she added, "he gets crap here and also crap from above. Look at this week already—he's had two people go down and run two major operations—one of them city-wide. He's working on Fred's and Tammy's memorial services, and he made three collars of his own."

_I'm not exaggerating… Cragen stirred up the chiefs, telling them the faster we got Erastais' pervs back behind bars, the quicker the city would forget they were living in their neighborhoods despite all the laws against it. He coordinated with the other SV units, chivvied Beale and the DA's office to get the warrants ASAP, and then led the charge against the twenty who were in Manhattan. He and Greg, Jason, and Sue from Howie's shift, the six of us—damn, that number sounds so wrong—we brought them all in this morning…when it was over, I overheard Jason telling his shift how the captain still had all his moves…._

"He has been riding Judith and me hard," Couch replied, "about the Dykeman case, but he's also keeping the brass and the media at bay, so I'm not complaining—much, anyway."

A couple uniforms chuckled.

"And he helped get the contract talks back on track," offered Officer Ted Jerzy, a lanky redhead who was leaning against the copier. "I guess I can cut some slack if it means a contract I can live with."

A few more heads nodded. Olivia measured the stance and expressions of the rest.

_They're following Jerzy's lead… letting the matter go—for now, anyway… damn, I'm glad of that… between the round-up this morning, Fred's viewing this afternoon, and now a full shift, I'd probably bite the head off the next complainer…._

Olivia caught Couch's attention and smiled her thanks. He gave her a 'thumbs-up' in reply before turning back to his e-mail.

"Nice job, Liv—'cept Cap'n don't deserve it."

Fin's voice, pitched too low for anyone but her to hear it, halted her in mid-chair spin. He leaned closer, a motion she matched.

"Cragen tell you that being lead detective was temporary?"

"Yes," Benson replied. "He said he was giving Elliot a break. Seems like a good idea, the way he's been acting."

Tutuola turned to check on Couch, who was intent on his computer screen.

"Ain't true," Fin said. "Couch's gonna be the next lead. He's taking the sergeant's exam this month. Cragen's arranged for immediate promotion as soon as he passes."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Judith. Her and something Elliot was muttering couple days ago right before shift end."

Fin's news hit her with such shock, her stomach knotted and she tasted bile.

"He lied to me? That's the last thing I expect from him."

"Told you weeks ago you and Elliot were worrying about the wrong person."

Olivia tried to take in a big breath of air, but the knot in her stomach kept her lungs from working right.

"You tried to talk to Cragen?"

Fin shook his head. "I didn't think he'd run his command into the ground 'cause the promotion board wouldn't like it. Looks like I was wrong."

They both glanced at Sofarelli, still intent on his e-mail.

"Damn it, Fin," Olivia said. "Couch doesn't know enough to run a shift."

"I know. Can't do much about it."

Fin rolled his chair a few inches closer.

"What I said before that got everyone stirred up, I shouldn't of said it. You still offering me the crib after Judith?"

Olivia accepted his apology with a nod. "Wake her up in thirty then take an hour."

He thanked her then left Olivia to her thoughts.

_I can't believe this… Cragen has yelled at me, docked my vacation days, put me on desk duty, and warned me plenty of times to get my act together—most of which I deserved—but he's never lied to me… maybe One P.P. told him to make Couch lead detective, but still… I have to talk to him about this… whenever he finishes doing whatever he's doing right now…._

Office of Councilman John Baker  
264 West 30th St  
Manhattan, NY  
7 July

Councilman Baker's district office, located on the second-floor above an insurance agency, included a small conference room. At one end of its oval table sat Tullia Horne, a stop watch in her right hand, her brow creased and her lips tight as she intently observed the far end of the table.

There, behind a podium, stood Donald Cragen in his new mid gray herringbone suit. He stood straight with his head held high, but his hands gripped the podium as though it might run away.

"…when Tammy entered the store that night with her partner, she did not know what awaited the two of them. The lack of warning did not matter. Being off-duty did not matter. Both she and Fred reacted with the professionalism and instincts that made them shining examples of those who are New York City's Finest."

Cragen paused to swallow. His fingers ached from his grip on the podium and the words were blurring on the page before him.

_Two more paragraphs... hold it together for two more paragraphs...._

"Tammy was famous for her jokes and for her way with young witnesses; she claimed it was because she never bothered to grow up. That's not true; she was one of the most dependable and trustworthy detectives that I have had the honor to know.

"To lose both Tammy and Fred...."

His voice broke. He tried again and still couldn't say the words 'at the same time' so he skipped to the next sentence.

"We will remember the victims and families whom Tammy helped and the cases she worked. We will remember the good times we shared with her. We will remember her courage and devotion. When confronted with mortal danger, she did her job and, in doing so, made the ultimate sacrifice. This we will never forget."

As soon as he finished, Tullia clicked the stop watch.

"Five minutes, fifty-two seconds. It's a good length, Don, and you spoke well."

Cragen released the podium and wiggled his fingers to relieve the cramps in them.

"Yeah—right."

"Seriously," she insisted. "You'll make quite an impression."

He pulled a chair out and sank into it.

"I follow the mayor and Commissioner Richardson. I'd have to be one hell of an orator to make any impression."

She left the stop watch on the table and took the chair next to him.

"It's all in the subject matter and the presentation," she told him. "They're giving canned speeches written by professionals—sincere and well-meant, but canned nevertheless. You, on the other hand—"

She took his left hand in hers and began to work his fingers and wrist.

"—you knew these people. You worked with them, commanded them, cared about them. That comes across as you talk about them. No one else can convey that depth of emotion no matter how good his speechwriter is."

Tense muscles loosened as she pulled and twisted.

"Don't use a death grip the podium," Tullia continued. "It makes you look scared. If we had more time, I'd coach you in natural gestures. Speakers who are comfortable using their hands never grab the podium like they're trying to wrestle it to the ground."

Don sighed at all the instructions.

"Where were you the first time I had to do this?"

"When was that?"

"Sixteen years ago—for a good friend and former partner. Max has been on my mind a lot the past couple days."

_And not just Max... Lennie, Marge, all the dear departed...._

Tullia released his left hand and beckoned for his right.

"I think death does that to people. When my father died last year, I spend as much time thinking about how I missed my grandmother—his mom—as I did about him."

"Yeah," he replied, "you think about everyone who is gone."

Cragen handed her his hand and watched her face as she worked it over.

_You're nothing like Marge and a lot like her… completely different looks, skills, and talents, but the same self-confidence and joy in life… I can't tell you how much your help means right now… Fred and Tammy deserve my best tomorrow and I'm so tired, I can barely drag my tail across the room…._

"Do you want to do another run-through?"

Cragen checked his watch.

"No, not unless you think I should. I need to stop by the funeral home and run by the unit before the wake tonight."

Tullia gave his wrist a last rub then made a show of presenting it back to him. The strong features of her face, the Balzano nose and the dark but deep-set southern Italian eyes, lit up with her smile.

"Like I said, you'll do fine. Don't worry about flubbing a word or two—everyone knows eulogies are the hardest speeches to give. Just speak naturally—don't speed up and don't try to strangle the podium."

His face grew warm as he smiled his thanks.

"I really appreciate all your help, Tullia. It's important to do this right and—well, I really appreciate it."

She patted his arm.

"It was no trouble, Don. You at least take direction."

Tullia glanced at the open door and lowered her voice.

"Coaching John for a speech is like teaching a pig to pirouette—he's stubborn, stupid, and terminally clumsy. If I had you to work with, we'd be planning to win the next mayor's race."

Don felt his cheeks go warmer.

"Yeah, right. I'll settle for Inspector."

Her quick smile made the rest of him go warm.

"No problem there," she said. "Now, remember to get some sleep tonight. You look awfully tired."

He nodded.

_If you knew me better, you'd know it's my normal look…._

"I need to ask one more favor."

Tullia shrugged as if to say "Why not?" then she waited while he found the right words.

_Haven't done this in a long, long while… but you said you loved drives in the country…._

"You busy Saturday? I'm biding on a old sports car that morning. If I get it, I'll need someone to help try it out."

Tullia blinked a few times.

_Okay—so I don't seem the sports car type…._

"Convertible?"

"Of course."

She chuckled and spread her hands wide in acceptance.

"Then, of course. I'd love to."

Don stood up and shook both arms to smooth his sleeves over his cuffs.

"I'll call you after the auction if I get the car. If not, will you have dinner with me?"

"Of course, but you'll get the car. I'll have my fingers crossed and I'll light a few candles to the patron saint of car auctions."

It was his turn to chuckle then he turned serious.

"Tullia, I really appreciate—"

She took his hand and squeezed it.

"Hey—if it helps you honor two people who deserve it, then I'm glad to do it. Now, get to your duties and let me know about Saturday, okay?"

Just then, her Blackberry began to play the Minute Waltz.

"Damn," she said, "I have to take this. Call me—okay?"

She hesitated until he nodded then she took the call. Cragen let himself out of the office. As soon as he was in his car, he leaned back and yawned until his jaw popped.

_Hell of a day—a fight with Andrew over warrants then I'm making collars like I've been busted back to detective… follow it all with that damn press conference and I still have the funeral home and Fred and Tammy's wake…._

Despite his exhaustion, he grinned.

_But I also have a date with Tullia… I actually asked her… that almost makes it all worthwhile…._

Manhattan Homicide Squadroom  
27th Precinct  
7 July

The bustle and hustle of the squad was at its usual fever pitch: phones, chatter, printers and faxes whining and beeping, people jog-walking from one entrance to the other, stopping at desks to drop things off or to ask questions... except for two desks in the center of the room. Those everyone avoided as though yellow quarantine signs hung above them.

Ed Green appreciated the peace, but regretted its reasons.

_We caught the one case no cop wants—a cop killer… with all the attention from the brass and the media, people can't turn around without stepping on a chief or a reporter... I'm sucking up lab resources to the point that other cases have to wait on us.... and it's been three days without naming a suspect—at least none we can tell anyone about, so same thing—and people are wondering if Joe and me really can close this thing...._

Across the desk, Fontana was reading through the latest canvass report. His dark-framed reading glasses did not hide the fatigue sagging the corners of his eyes. A gray and lavender striped tie was draped around his open collar, a sign that work had taken precedence over sartorial neatness.

_We've both been here over seventy-two hours straight…._

Green stifled a yawn then made a phone call.

"Corley? It's Ed Green; any word on—"

He jerked as the slam of a receiver on its cradle jarred his eardrum. Joe looked up from his reading.

"I gather Latents isn't finished dusting and checking every piece of candy on that store aisle?"

Ed shook his head.

"You call Corley next time. Maybe he'll talk to you."

Joe removed his glasses to rub his eyes.

"Thanks, but no," he said. "I've had enough phones slammed in my ear the past three days. Corley will call us when he's finished—hopefully, with good news."

The afternoon shift meeting that day was especially awkward. Green and Fontana were the focus of a semicircle of detectives and uniforms, all their eyes fixed on them and everyone asking the same silent question.... _You gonna catch this fuckwad or not?_

The glares held as Ed ran through his report.

"We've accounted for every registered Baretta 93R in the tri-state area. We've determined that the witness we're looking for is not enrolled at any of the public or private schools in Manhattan, Queens, or Brooklyn. We're now checking every store that sells the shoes he was wearing that night. The store owner's wife told us her husband had a running beef with a Hispanic male in his mid-twenties named Carlos. Turns out he is Carlos Millan and a member of the Mexican street gang L-12, but their beef was more macho talk than anything. Besides, Millan is in the Tombs serving six months for assault. We've—"

Tim Bradley from Lt. Monaghan's shift, a sandy-haired detective Green's age but with Fontana's height and heft, interrupted.

"What you're saying is you got nothing—right?"

Murmurs echoed his words. Ed glanced over at the lieutenants; both Van Buren and Monaghan were gauging their teams' reactions. Next to Ed, Joe shifted his weight on his feet, a sign he was eager to answer Bradley's complaint.

_Fine with me, bro... just don't say anything that makes the lieu mad or gets the case taken from us...._

"No, Bradley," Fontana replied, "we got plenty, so much plenty that it takes a while to sift through it all."

Bradley took a step toward Joe and folded his arms across his chest.

"You gonna bring someone in before Tierney and White get planted?"

Fontana held his ground beside his partner. The pleasant smile curving his lips belied the sternness of his voice.

"We're working the case by the book. When we do bring someone in, it'll be the right guy and the charges and evidence will be so tight that no lawyer, be it Legal Aid or Theodore Landis himself, will get Tierney and White's killer off."

He caught Bradley's gaze and held it until the younger detective backed down. The murmurs died away, but not quickly enough for Ed to avoid hearing them.

_Too many of them think Major Case should be running this...._

Van Buren stepped into the center of the group and finished up the meeting. Afterward, she beckoned Green into her office. Ed gratefully slumped into her side chair while she leaned against her desk to talk to him.

"Ed, I had to let you two handle Bradley," she told him. "If I'd stepped in, it would look like I'm propping you up."

"I know, Lieu," he replied. "I know. It's just…"

He let the sentence trail off and Van Buren picked up his thought.

"It's just that you have a perfectly good suspect and you can't find tell anyone and you can't find him. I know. Be a lot easier if kids had as much exposure in our databases as adults do."

Ed waved his hand at her as he latched onto her last comment.

"We're working a couple of angles on that. I told you about the candy one...."

"Yeah. A kid standing in a candy aisle for that long couldn't help but handle the merchandise. That was a good idea, Ed."

Ed tried to smile at the praise, but his face was too tired to do more than twitch.

"... and Joe asked TARU to examine the still shot of the kid to see if there's anything up with the kid's facial features."

Van Buren tipped her head forward and stared at him.

"He think the kid's wearing a disguise or maybe he's really a midget?"

Ed snorted at the thought. "Maybe the first. Couple of people who looked at the photo thought the freckles looked odd. Can't hurt to check."

Van Buren nodded.

"How's your partner holding up?" she asked

Ed glanced through the glass office partition at Joe, who was still reading at his desk.

_I'm not admitting Joe is dragging more than me… not even if it's true… that zoning out thing he's doing.... a second or two of staring at something not there... it's kind of freaky... but he's tracking on everything else so I guess he's just tired...._

"We both could use some more sleep, but we're doing okay."

She frowned at him and he held her gaze without mentioning his doubts aloud.

"You should know," she said without acknowledging his lack of answer, "Major Case is demanding this be turned over to them by tomorrow at the latest. I also heard that, if something doesn't break today, Captain Ross is going to get his wish."

Ed bolted upright in his chair.

"No! They can't—"

"Yes, they can. Look, Ed—I don't have the juice to win this fight. I also don't want you or your partner manufacturing evidence or finding another witness just to keep this case here. You work it by the book and, if you don't locate the kid by tomorrow, at least you tried."

Ed jerked a thumb at the detectives working in the squadroom.

"You think they're going see it that way?"

Van Buren put both hands on her hips and glared down at him.

"I'll see it that way. Now, you get—oh, shit!"

The unexpected expletive caught Green's attention. He stared at Van Buren then followed her gaze out into the squadroom. There, Captain Judith Siper of CSU was standing by Fontana's desk with a folder in her hand.

The sigh from the lieutenant's lips sounded more like a snarl.

"I've had nothing but grief from that woman the past three days—how we're tying up her techs and using up her lab resources. The way she's acting, you'd think we were working a missing pet report and not two LOD deaths."

Ed watched as Joe opened the folder while Captain Siper talked to him. His head jerked up and he pointed towards the office. Siper checked her watch and shook her head. Before the captain had completed her turn to leave, Joe was at Van Buren's door. Ed shifted his chair to avoid being hit by the door as his partner burst in.

"We got it!" he announced. "Captain Siper just hand-delivered it herself—the kid's name, his home address, his next of kin—everything."

He sank into a chair next to his partner.

"Which," he told them, "is a very bad thing."

Van Buren scowled at him while Ed felt his shoulders sag under the weight of yet more trouble. Joe stared at the folder in his hands for a moment then he shook his head and began to explain.

"According to Captain Siper, Latents kept finding the same couple of prints on almost every brand of candy there; it's like the kid spent his time fondling the sweets. Since NCIC didn't have a match, Corley sent the prints and the kid's description to the National Center For Missing & Exploited Children and he asked them to check the missing children clearinghouses around the country—see if there was a match through them."

From the folder, he pulled a picture of a tow-headed four-year-old riding a Big Wheels on a suburban driveway.

"Meet Jason Allen Meade of Creve Coeur, Missouri. He was four and a half years old when he vanished on November 25th, 2000 from a mall near his home. His parents had got him fingerprinted at a church fun fair the year before. When he went missing, they gave the card to the local police, who sent it to the Missouri clearinghouse, which is where NCMEC found it."

Ed took the photo and studied it.

_Cute kid... don't look like a cop killer to me...don't look freckled, either…._

He handed the photo to Van Buren, who sighed and clucked over the little boy in it.

"I don't know what I expected," she said, "but this just makes it worse."

"So our problem is," Joe continued, "how do we tell the parents we found their missing kid, but he's killed four people and they can't have him back?"

Van Buren reached for her phone.

"Good question, Fontana. Let me find out."

It took almost ninety minutes for Van Buren's question to run up the chain of command and be considered by the brass and then for the answer to come back down the chain. As soon as she ended her conversation with Chief Conrad, she called Fontana and Green into her office.

"Make sure that door is closed," she told Ed, "and come over here."

The three of them stood looking out her window, backs to the curious detectives in the squadroom.

"This is straight from the commissioner himself," she said. "You get to keep the case under the following conditions: first, the story that this kid is only a witness still stands."

Both men nodded.

"Second, we don't tell his parents anything about him being a murder suspect until we have him in custody. Not one word—got it?"

They nodded again.

"Third, we do our damnedest to keep this kid's history out of the papers and off the TV news. Not only will it affect anyone called for jury duty when he's tried, but it might tip off whoever or whatever brought him into the city. We don't know what we're getting into with that and the closer we keep the info to ourselves, the better. Got it?"

Both men nodded. Van Buren then looked each of them over carefully. Ed noted that she spent a second or two more on Joe than she did him.

_That's not good... I ain't working this case if she takes Joe off it... I don't care what the reason is...._

Van Buren took a folder from inside her bottom desk drawer.

"The Chief of Dees assures me that the only other person besides us and command personnel who knows the truth about the kid is CSU Tech Mark Dill. Is that true?"

Joe blinked a few times before nodding.

"Yeah, he watched the tape through with me the first couple of times and he did the photo printing with me watching. After that, it was him, me, and brass with the tape—no one else."

"You haven't mentioned anything to Detective Otten or any of the SVU people, have you?"

"No, ma'am," Joe replied. "Judith and me have been playing phone tag since the Fourth and I haven't seen or talked to anyone else from her unit."

She turned to Green, who gave her the same assurances.

"Good. I hate to do it, but we have to keep them in the dark, too."

Van Buren handed the folder to Ed.

"Now, go find out how Jason Allen Meade went from being a kid shopping with his parents to a killer of cops."


	19. Hurricane: part three

Outside the office of Audrey Jackson, Ph.D.  
141 East 55th Street, Manhattan  
7 July

Elliot sat behind the wheel of his Jeep and yawned until his jaw popped.

_I should get back to the station house… I should get something to eat… but I need to take some time and think through what just happened…._

He glanced up at the third floor window behind which he had spent the last hour and considered what had happened there.

The décor of Dr. Jackson's office was designed to soothe, not intimidate. Sunlight streamed through the windows and the floral print chair Stabler sat in was surprisingly comfortable. Across from him in a matching chair, Audrey Jackson looked the same as when he had last faced her: cheerful, intense, almost telepathically aware of what he was thinking.

"Kathy and you are proud people," she said, "who need to prove yourselves. You work your cases hard and Kathy works just as hard for your family. You took on more responsibility at work because you think you're the best one for the job. Kathy did the same at home; she took on the child-rearing, the money-handling, the housework, the yard work, the religious training, the discipline, and the fun stuff."

Dr. Jackson leaned forward in her chair and clasped her hands together.

"Your long hours and the emotional distance between you and your wife makes you seem more like an occasional visitor and paycheck than a partner for life."

I'm nothing but a paycheck?

Elliot shot out the chair, his fists balled, his blood pressure at critical.

"I'm a good father and a good husband!"

The psychologist's lack of response gave Elliot time to hear the hollowness of his words. He glanced around her office, drew in a deep breath, and licked the dryness on his lips.

"No—no, I'm not. I have to go home to be those things. I can't take care of my family from my desk."

Elliot sank back into his chair and sighed.

"Even when I am home, my head's still in the game thinking about whatever cases I've got."

"Why do you think that is?"

He shrugged as though the answer was obvious.

"I know perps—how they think, what they'll do, how to make them give it up when caught. I don't know my family that well. Every time I think I have my kids figured out, they change into someone completely different."

Dr. Jackson waited for him to continue. Elliot shifted in the now-uncomfortable chair and tried to find words to describe what he felt.

"It's like I go to work and Lizzie's ten—all elbows and knees and talking about soccer and Lizzie McGuire. I come home and she's thirteen, demanding to be called Elizabeth, and wanting to spend 24/7 on the phone with boys. I—I can't keep up with her. I couldn't keep up with Maureen; she grew up when I wasn't looking. Kathleen's going the same way, and Dickie—I mean Richard—and Elizabeth... it's the same with them."

"Do you feel that way about your wife?"

He nodded and cursed himself for the weak smile on his lips.

"Kathy used to need me. Now...."

Dr. Jackson picked up his thought.

"When you stopped talking about your job with Kathy and started spending so much time working, she felt like you had lost interest in her and your children. She found it difficult to share the family with you. When you did come home, Kathy saw it as a threat to her authority. To protect her position as parent, she started withholding information about your children so you wouldn't second-guess her decisions."

Elliot considered her explanation.

"You make it sound like Kathy doesn't trust me any more."

Dr. Jackson shook her head.

"She still trusts you, but she has been disappointed too many times. When the communication between you two went stale, it took almost everything else with it."

The psychologist then looked Elliot straight in his eye.

"Kathy resents the way you let that happen. She thinks you should have seen it coming and dropped some of your job-related responsibilities so you could be there for her and your family."

She held a hand up to stop Elliot from interrupting.

"It's not a rational response, but it's a common one. It's just as irrational and just as common as your resentment toward Kathy for letting things get so bad that she left you."

She sat back and let Elliot mull over her words.

_So, I try to protect Kathy from the filth I deal with every day and she thinks I'm shutting her out of my life… she's so busy covering for me as a parent that I think she's shutting me out of her life… it sort of makes sense…._

He repeated his thoughts aloud and Dr Jackson smiled her agreement.

"Neither of you," she said, "are good at explaining your needs to each other. Kathy wants someone to take care of her, but she's a strong woman who also needs to be in charge. You need a secure place to come home to, but you made that place insecure by concentrating on your work, which made Kathy feel abandoned."

Elliot drew in a breath and held it while he tried to puzzle through that concept.

_But my home is secure… the mortgage gets paid; the bills are covered… there's enough to splurge on dinner out with the kids once in a while… is she talking about emotional abandonment? Doesn't Kathy understand what my job requires? I have to work the cases, be there for the victims…._

He blew out the held breath, exasperated by his confusion.

"But I have to concentrate on my work. The victims need—"

Dr. Jackson raised an eyebrow. Her quizzical gaze pinned him to his chair.

"Does every victim in Manhattan need you? Aren't the other detectives on your squad just as capable and intelligent?"

_A brief flash of memory—Cragen announcing that Dr. Jackson would be evaluating each of the unit's detectives—prompted a wry chuckle._

"You tell me," he said. "You've met some of them."

She nodded. "Yes, I have and you know they can handle things while you're home getting the down time you need."

_The down time I need...._

Elliot yawned again then put his Jeep into gear and headed for the station house.

_It took me a while, but I finally figured out that Dr. Jackson was saying what John had told me at McMullen's... my family and Kathy need me... and, more than that—I need to be with them, away from the job... standing down from all the shit I deal with... with everything going down right now, home is looking pretty damn good... ._

He glanced up just a traffic light overhead turned yellow. The bright LEDs in their metal tube reminded him of the light at the end of a tunnel...

_... or the light of an oncoming train... trying to fix things with Kathy might turn into a train wreck... we both have to unlearn bad habits... overcome our pride... and that's damn hard to do.…_

"The Crib"  
27th Precinct  
8 July

A clear winter day, sunlit and still. Judith preceded him through the glass door that led into the small city park and the smile on her face was made of pure joy. Joe grinned back at her before stepping over the threshold onto the packed snow that covered the park's pavement.

Before him, by a metal park bench, stood a familiar-looking young man: mid-teens, black, close-cropped hair and the start of a moustache. He was wearing a bulky black and silver coat and holding a .22 pistol pointed at the ground.

_Jeremy Miller… killed an innocent bystander while trying to shoot the woman he thought killed his sister…._

Judith jinked to the right and aimed her weapon at the boy. Joe felt his own piece heavy in his grip as he reached out his other hand.

"You can make it right, Jeremy," he told the young man. "You don't need to do this. Just please hand me the—"

A burr of automatic fire sounded from Fontana's left and he flinched when Judith's head jerked sideways. She began to crumple just as Jeremy twitched and his coat went dark with blood. Joe swung his weapon up, trying to bear on the source of the shots when it all went black.

He gasped as he woke. Ice filled his bones and his heart beat sluggishly as it searched for a forgotten rhythm. He was on his back, clad in undershirt and shorts, his legs tangled in the sheets, his left arm close by his side, his right flung wide above his head.

_The same position Fred Tierney died in... the position I just dreamt I died in...._

He sat up, half expecting to find Judith and Jeremy dead on the floor by his cot. The sight of vacant linoleum assured him as did the sound of Ed's snores from the cot two over from his.

_First the flashbacks from that videotape, now this... If I didn't know better, I'd say this case is starting to get to me.... almost 5:30… might as well get up and start the day…._

Fontana showered, shaved, and selected a dark gray suit, dove gray shirt, and somber tie from the three he had brought in from home...

_...just in case I can't change into my dress uniform before Tierney's funeral...._

An hour later, a fresh cup of coffee landed by his keyboard followed by his partner joining him at their shared desk. Like Joe, Ed had brought clothing for an extended stay and he also had chosen muted colors for the day.

"You look almost human," Green said in greeting.

"Not bad for being here four days straight," Joe replied. "Good thing I like the laundry across the street. You want this before or after we get breakfast?"

Ed eyed the sheaf of papers in Joe's hand with the same suspicion he gave meat sandwiches from the local deli.

"What's this?"

"Top page is Mark Dill's freckle check. He can't tell from the photo what made them, but he did say they are a bit too dark to be real freckles. Under his report is everything Creve Coeur P.D. has on Jason Meade. He vanished from the mall food court while Dad was buying lunch for him and his baby brother. Security video showed a boy in a shirt like the one Jason was wearing leaving the mall with a man in jeans, t-shirt, and a ball cap—no shots of the man's face."

"Damn," Ed replied. "No wonder they couldn't find the kid; 'jeans, t-shirt, and a ball cap' describes half the people in Missouri."

"And that's just the women," Joe quipped. "Anyway, no other sightings were reported and no ransom demands, either. The locals figured it for a stranger abduction, maybe a pedophile who pulled off the interstate to find a traveling companion. That would explain how the boy ended up here in New York."

Ed checked around to see if anyone was paying them attention then he leaned forward, closer to Joe.

"Maybe," he said, "but it don't explain how a four-year-old on a Big Wheels ended up with a Beretta 93R and four dead at his feet."

The remembered odor of blood and fluids filled Joe's nose. For a moment, he was back at the crime scene, seeing again the three bodies on the floor while Green checked behind the counter for the fourth.

"Takes a lot to twist a child that bad," Ed was saying, "Who'd be sick enough to turn a little kid into a killer?"

Joe shrugged off the memory and his partner's question.

"Some kids are born that way," he said. "Whoever took their son may have done the Meades a favor."

Ed gaped at his partner's bluntness for a moment before agreeing with a nod.

"Hate to say it," he admitted, "but it does happen."

Ed began to leaf through the faxed copies of the case file. A photo caught his attention: the Meade family with Jason on his dad's lap and his baby brother held by his mother. Ed pulled it from the file then held it up for his partner to see.

"Joe," he said quietly. "I'm trying to see this kid as a victim, but Tierney and White, Weston, Bashir—they keep getting in the way."

Fontana rested his arms on his desk and leaned forward to keep his words for Green only.

"I know what you mean. The way I see it—whatever happened to this kid, he still could have left that store without killing anyone, but he didn't. The result? Mr. Bashir's family buried him yesterday. Tierney and White's services are today. Tim Weston's family will bury their son on Saturday. They get my sympathy, not this kid."

"What about the Meades?"

"I'm sorry about them, but their son still killed four people. We can't change that. All we can do is find him and bring him in."

Joe watched his partner place the Meade family photo against his desk lamp, a counterpoint to the photo of the older Jason Meade entering the grocery that Joe had leaning against his own lamp.

"Stranger abduction, kid shows up years later acting seriously twisted," Ed said, "could be child porn involved somehow?"

"Captain Siper gave us Mark Dill for the duration. Have him run Meade's photo through the child porn databases. Maybe you'll find him in someone's dirty movies."

Ed reached for his desk phone. "Good idea."

"In the meantime...," Joe said, hooking a thumb toward the men's room, "I'll be occupied elsewhere."

As soon as he was around the corner and out of earshot of the squadroom, Fontana called Central Dispatch on his cell phone.

"Would you patch me through to Detective Alisha Carter, Bronx SVU? Thanks."

_Van Buren said not to share info with Manhattan SVU, but she didn't say a word about the other four boroughs... Alisha will know if there's any sickos in the city who keep young kids as fashion accessories or sex toys... and who might get a charge out of teaching them to kill...._

When she didn't answer, he left a message to call him back ASAP then he called Judith.

_Fourteenth time's the charm, I'm sure...._

"You have reached Judith Otten, Manhattan Special Victims Unit. Please leave...."

While the rest of the recording played, he ducked into the stairwell for some privacy.

"Judith," he began his message, "it's Joe and it's official—this is the longest game of phone tag I've ever played."

He paused.

_This is where I usually say 'Call me back when you can' and something like 'Take care'... but not this time.…_

"Judith," he said, "I'm thinking today's gonna be a rough one for you—not just because of Fred and Tammy, but because you'll remember your husband and maybe even worry about someday grieving for your sons. Funerals do that to people—make them think about those who aren't here anymore and the ones still in harm's way."

He swallowed hard; the struggle to find the right words was drying his throat.

"I lost the habit of praying a long time ago, but maybe me thinking about you, wishing you strength and peace today will help. I hope so, because that's what I'm going to do."

He could not think of a good way to end the call so he hung up and leaned against the metal banister. Alone, in the temporary privacy of an empty stairwell, he kept that promise.

MacAllister's Funeral Home  
Queens Village, NY  
8 July

Open casket viewings gave Olivia the willies. No matter that she saw dead bodies on a too-regular basis or that the custom was commonplace for police funerals; the sight of someone she knew lying embalmed and still on white satin raised goose bumps that had nothing to do with air conditioning.

For that reason, she stayed just long enough to file past Fred's casket, speak to a few of the people present, including Fred's sister and mother, and sign the register. Her pace out the front door of the funeral home was not quite a bolt, but only because running would attract the attention of everyone waiting to pay their own respects.

The wake at the Tap and Growler was easier to handle. There was no casket holding a body that bore little resemblance to the Fred Tierney she had known and worked with for almost two years—only several large photos of him and Tammy surrounded by flowers. Two were their official portraits. Another had been taken at McMullen's Tavern; Tammy was holding a glass mug of beer while Fred daintily sipped some fruit concoction with a pink paper umbrella.

_He'd lost a bar bet and had to drink whatever Tammy and I ordered for him… the one in that photo is a Lava Flow: coconut, banana, strawberries, pineapple, and rum… Tammy followed it with peppermint schnapps, which Fred followed with a fast trip to the men's room…._

Other photos showed the two detectives at their desks, their graduations from the Academy, Fred with his parents and sister, Tammy surrounded by friends from her years at the 77th Precinct. From time to time, people would step up to the photos, raise a glass, and make a toast to their memories. Some were elaborate Irish set-pieces, others shorter and less eloquent. All tugged at Olivia's heart.

_We support our own. We mourn our own. In many ways, we are family…._

Olivia spotted Elliot across the room. He was standing with several others who were listening to Patrick Tierney.

_Undoubtedly telling stories about his son…._

She started over to join the group. Elliot glanced up, recognized her, and immediately turned away.

_We fight with our own, too—yeah, just like a family…._

She was back at the funeral parlor at quarter to ten the next day, slightly fuzzy-brained from lack of sleep and the wine drunk the night before.

Dress blues, white gloves spotless, my shoes and buttons all shined… black ribbon of mourning across my badge… ready for my part in today's ceremony—to accompany Fred while the hearse takes him to his church for one last Mass… to march behind his casket in his honor guard…..

The hearse was met at St. Cecilia's by eight pallbearers in full uniform: Elliot, John, Fin, and Couch, Mike Reynolds, Gene Morris, and Dale Gurstelle from the Thirteenth Precinct, and Fred's father.

_He said he had carried Fred when he was little and it was his right to carry him today… I told Judith that last night at the wake and she lost it—tears like Niagara down both cheeks… every parent's nightmare, to have to mourn a child…._

John gave the commands and counted the cadence with Couch at attention at his side while the other six men pulled the casket, draped in the green and white flag of the NYPD, from the hearse. On his command, they hefted it to their shoulders and began the slow march up the ramps and into the church, Munch and Sofarelli close behind.

_Couch is there in case someone needs to step away from the casket—if someone twists an ankle or is overcome with grief…._

Olivia joined the line for those attending the funeral, taking her seat in a pew five from the front, pulpit side of the church. Fred's casket rested on a catafalque in the main aisle; the pall bearers were already seated across from her. The front pews were filled with the Tierney family, their friends, police officials, the mayor, Commissioner Richardson, and Captain Cragen.

_Fred's dad asked him to speak… can't tell from the back of his head if he's prepared or not… he better have made time in all his promotional politicking to get ready for this…._

Judith in her dress blues was with the Tierneys in the front pew.

_Her job today is to assist the family in any way they might need… hope Judith holds it together better today than she did last night…._

The organ began to sound out a Bach prelude. Olivia let the music and the worship service flow around her as she stood and sat in rhythm with those around her.

_It's not my beliefs being fed here; I don't need this sort of thing… that's not really true—if I go down in the line of duty, I'm glad someone will arrange a memorial ceremony for me… but what Sue and I did for Tammy is more to my taste…._

Across from her, Elliot followed the order of service, Couch joining in for some of the prayers and hymns. Fin sat stiff and stoic while John appeared lost in his own thoughts. He was doing a better job of standing and sitting in unison with the worshippers than she was.

_He once said Baltimore was a Catholic town… maybe he got more practice there than I've had at this…._

Halfway through the commissioner's eulogy, Judith left with an infant in one arm, a diaper bag over her shoulder.

_I guess 'assist the family in any way' includes poop duty… better her than me…._

She returned just in time for Cragen's eulogy.

_Wow… I expected something canned… that was… that was—damn, he even got Fin teary-eyed… thanks, Cap; you did Fred proud…._

When the service was over, Olivia followed the casket and Fred's family out to the street. Bagpipes skirling and shrilling, flags carried by the color guard proceeding the hearse, police helicopters in formation overhead, uniformed officers standing at attention in rows six deep on both sides of the street for the three-block march to the cemetery—Olivia let it all blur past her.

_A short service at the graveside… family, close friends, those who served with Fred… a final blessing from his priest, the pall bearers removing the flag from the casket, folding it carefully… John handing it to Mrs. Tierney… prayers, tears, final farewells… the casket lowered into the ground… a bugler plays Taps… and Detective Fred Tierney is gone…._


	20. Hurricane: part four

Cemetery of St. Cecilia's Catholic Church  
8 July

Captain Cragen had walked back to the road from Fred's grave with Pat and Alma Tierney. After saying his farewells, he made his way down the line of parked cars.

The vehicles along the cemetery road were sorted by importance. MacAllister's hearse and the limos for the Tierney family were closest to the grave then came the limos for the VIPs who attended the interment. Cars belonging to representatives of the various benevolent and fraternal orders, the D.A.'s office, Tierney relatives, family friends, and others, were parked further away. Cragen stopped to shake hands and speak to Commissioner Richardson, Acting Chief of Department Fulton, several deputy commissioners, including Tony Balzano....

_... but only because he was standing next to Richardson... man, I thought he'd stroke out when I shook his hand...._

Don Cragen's car rated a spot just beyond the VIP vehicles. Charlie Alton, his assigned driver, stood by its passenger door, waiting for the captain to return to the car.

_If Charlie weren't in dress uniform, he'd be leaning against the car, taking some weight off that arthritic hip of his... but he and Patrick Tierney were at the One-Oh-Five together... nothing less formal than parade rest from Charlie today—pain be drizzled, he'd say...._

"Don!"

Cragen turned around to see SVU Bureau Chief Andrew Beale making his way up the slope to the road. His wingtips and dark gray suit were not designed for cross-country travel, not even for the fifty yards to where Cragen was standing.

_This could be grim... I forced the issue on Erastais Management—Andrew didn't want to bother enough judges to sign fifty-seven warrants as fast as I needed them... technically, he's above me, equal to Chief Conrad, but we're now also friends... on the Fourth, I went to the Yankees game with him then I was ordering him around like he was a rookie... maybe I should have said 'Pretty please'... we haven't spoken since…._

He sighed then braced himself for another woodshed experience.

_I should be used to them by now...._

The rotund man topped the small rise and stood red-faced before Cragen.

"God blew it," he announced, "when he failed to supply the great outdoors with escalators. Feel like some lunch or are you promised elsewhere?"

"Depends," Don replied. "Are you planning to poison my food or just ruin my appetite with an ass-chewing?"

Beale's eyes narrowed then he smiled.

"You think I'm angry with you? No, Don—not at all. I was miffed at the extra effort you wanted from my people, but you were right. The sooner those 'clients' of Erastais were off the streets, the sooner the media forgot about them. Announcing their round-up at your press conference negated any problems and made you look damn good, too."

Beale closed the short distance between him and Cragen. A bit of road gravel slid out from under his leather sole and he grabbed Don's arm to keep from falling. Don reached a hand to steady him.

"Should have worn golf shoes," he grumbled. "Anyway, I do prefer it when you say 'Yes, Andrew,' but I'm not angry over this. If it matters, I'll even buy lunch."

"Yes, Andrew."

Beale's mouth twisted as his face reddened yet more.

"We can't laugh here—not where people can see you," he said. "You spoke very well at the church and don't think it wasn't noticed. Cracking a joke will ruin the great impression you made on everyone."

The praise warmed Don; the insinuation that his toil and sweat over Fred's eulogy was solely meant to boost himself cooled that warmth. He opened his mouth to protest, but Beale's next words reassured him.

"It's your sincerity that made your words so powerful. I don't care what Machiavelli wrote—you can't fake sincerity. You honored Detective Tierney and you showed your pride in your people and your unit. You also impressed important people. There's no shame in doing that all with one action."

He looked at his watch.

"We have three hours before Detective White's memorial service. You want to head back to your office with take-out or eat in public in your uniform?"

"My office. I should check on things before heading to Bryant Park."

Beale nodded.

"Done. I'll get some food and meet you there. We can talk about the speech you're giving at the Lawyers Association Dinner—which reminds me. Are you free for some golf this Saturday morning? Frank Lugar's bursitis is acting up, so Terence is looking for a fourth."

Don kept his gaze on the landscape before him.

_Golf with the acting Chief of Department, the man who will replace Tommy Sullivan… can't complain about that…._

"Is smiling permitted?" he asked.

"Of course. Why?"

_Because things are going so well, I feel like it...._

"I appreciate the invite," Cragen said, "but I may be starting a relationship with a British girl on Saturday."

Beale's head snapped around and his gaze bore into Cragen.

_C'mon, Andrew... you remember...._

"Of course," Beale said as his stern glare softened, "I forgot; the car auction is Saturday. That British girl to whom you refer is a certain Jaguar XKE."

The pudgy man shook his head as though to clear it of mistaken assumptions.

"For a moment, I thought you meant someone career-limiting. Mind if I tag along? It sounds like fun. Now, I'm off for food—see you at your office."

Beale didn't wait for the captain's reply. He patted Don on the shoulder as a farewell and headed for his car. Don caught Charlie's attention.

"Time to saddle up and ride back to the ranch," he told his driver.

_A fast lunch… a bit of politicking… then I get to say good-bye to another good detective… damn, what a day…._

1850 Norstrand Avenue  
Brooklyn, NY  
8 July

Fontana sat behind the wheel of his Mercedes while he kept an eye on the pedestrians around him. He had spent the morning following up on the Jason Meade abduction and dodging both his partner and his lieutenant so he could relay info to Alisha Carter at Bronx SVU without their overhearing him.

_Alisha said she found several guys who matched what I gave her... perverts who enjoy small boys and fine firearms... unfortunately, all but two are either guests of the criminal justice system or otherwise in the clear... I passed those names on to Ed without saying where I got them... no sense in getting Alisha in trouble... or me…._

He scanned the sidewalk on both sides of Norstrand and checked his rearview mirrors—no sign of the man Joe was there to meet.

_She also said there was one other possibility... not from an SV case or the databases... a story she'd heard while out drinking after a softball game a while ago... told by a guy I certainly hope is punctual... I'm missing Fred's funeral for this…._

A few minutes later, a man rounded the corner and appeared in the car's side mirror. Joe twisted around to get a good look at him through the rear window.

_That's him.... not quite six foot, dark skin, dark hair, shoulder holster under that leather jacket, walks like a cop...._

The man proved it by opening the passenger door and showing Fontana his shield and ID card before sliding into the front seat. Joe stuck out his hand.

"Fontana."

"Lake," the man replied. "Brooklyn SVU."

He gave Joe a thorough going-over that took in his gray suit, the interior of his Mercedes, even his pinky ring. Fontana returned the scrutiny.

_Not Hispanic, probably Indian--the American kind... soft-spoken... looks tired... Alisha said I could trust him...._

"Didn't you work the Julie Grant kidnapping?" Lake asked him. "The one where the kidnapper gave up her location because someone dunked his head in a toilet?"

Nothing in Lake's expression told Joe what he was thinking.

_Better not be the kind who throws a hissy fit if a suspect needs a little extra care…._

"Yes," Joe admitted, "that was me."

_Don't expect me to apologize for what I did to Lowell… not to you, not to anyone…._

Lake didn't twitch.

"Carter said you don't look like a cop, but you're straight up," he said. "Seems she was telling the truth. What do you need from me?"

"First of all," Joe told him, "You and me—we didn't meet. I didn't ask you anything and you didn't tell me anything..."

He aimed an index finger at Lake.

"...unless what you don't tell me helps out with the Tierney and White shooting. We clear on that?"

"Yep."

"Good. Now, a long time ago, you told Alisha a story about being shot at by a kid. I need every particular of that incident."

Fontana sat back and waited.

_If he's any good, it will take him two seconds to realize that Jason Meade isn't a witness…._

"I didn't ask you," Lake said, enunciating the words to stress their meaning, "if you think this kid—your witness—is your shooter."

"I didn't hear that question," Joe replied just as slowly, "and I didn't answer it, either."

A tight smile spread across the younger detective's lips and vanished just as quickly.

"In that case," he said, "let me tell you a story."

Lake settled himself in the passenger seat.

"It was ten years ago, May 29th, 1997," Lake told Fontana. "I was wrapping up my rookie year at the 79th Precinct. Our sergeant yanked my partner, Lou Crandall, and me from patrol so we could provide support for a narcotics raid at a drug house on Watson Avenue.

"The neighborhood along Watson was a bad one. Garages, machine shops, and small warehouses built during the second World War were mixed with big Victorian houses that were divided and sub-divided until the residents barely knew how to find their own apartment doors. Landlords didn't maintain the houses and the business owners were barely covering costs, let alone building maintenance and security. Abandoned cars claimed the parking spots and drugs ruled the streets.

"That night's target was a three-story Queen Anne, probably built 1890 or so. It was better maintained than the other houses on Watson, but that wasn't saying much. Whoever owned it was more interested in security bars on the windows than exterior paint. Robson and his team of cowboys did a fast sweep of the place first, rounding up all the users, then they set Lou and me to rechecking the rooms—see if anything had been overlooked.

"We were checking behind moldy sofas, under bed frames, closets—you know the drill. There was electricity, but damn few light bulbs so we're working by flashlight. Finally, we get to the third floor--really an attic divided into two rooms. Lou takes the right-hand room so I enter the left one. There's a chifforobe against the far wall; Robson's guys left its doors open so I give it quick look inside then I swing its doors shut."

The switch to present tense verbs was matched with a change in Lake's posture. He sat up and his toes pressed into the floorboards as though he might have to move quickly. His gaze remained on the intersection, but Joe could tell he no longer was seeing the street before them.

_Vivid memories do that... they suck you back to when they first happened...._

"That's when I spot someone huddled in a corner hidden by the chifforobe door. I shine my light there and start to draw my weapon before I realize the person is half my size—a kid: male, Caucasian, kinda scrawny, pale hair and the deadest eyes I've seen in a living face. I think, 'Damn—what's a kid that age doing here?'

"The kid doesn't say anything so I figure he's scared. I stick a hand out and say, 'You okay, kid?' He just stares at me—no movement whatsoever. I look over my shoulder to call out to Lou and the kid pulls a gun out of nowhere and aims it straight at me."

Lake's breathing quickened and a thin sheen of sweat dampened his forehead. A couple of similar incidents from his own past flashed through Joe's memory.

_Doesn't matter how many years have passed… nothing softens the memory of looking down a barrel at the bullet that's gonna kill you…._

"The last thing I expected," Lake finally said, "was for the kid to draw down on me and I froze—just stood there with my flashlight shining on him and his gun. That's what saved me. The kid didn't see my partner coming in on account of the light in his eyes. Lou fired twice past me and the kid went down."

"Your partner killed him?"

Lake shook his head. "Shoulder and a miss. Robson called a bus and the EMTs took him away. I wrote up my report and that was that."

_Except for the nightmares… I know… you don't have to tell me about them…._

"You get a name for the kid?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, Brandon Stone, no address."

"You recognize the weapon?"

"Not then. I looked it up in the firearms book later and I think it was a Pardini 32 caliber."

"Long barrel, walnut grip, three white grooves in front of the trigger?"

When Lake nodded, Joe replied, "I know that one—great for competition and not the cheapest thing on the street. So, where do I find this Robson to ask him about the raid?"

"You don't. He died a couple years ago—lung cancer."

Joe frowned as he took out his notepad.

"May 29th, 1997, Watson Avenue, Brandon Stone. You've any idea who Robson was looking to take down that night?"

"My guess is Dominick Anacacis; he was dealing in that area. He did a few years in Sing Sing not long after. I haven't heard much about him since."

Fontana wrote that info down then closed his notebook.

"Either Anacacis left the trade or got better at keeping his head down. I'll check him out—him and this Stone kid. Thank, Lake. This is a big help."

Lake put a hand on the door handle then turned back to Fontana.

"Be careful around your 'witness.' I'm telling you—there was nothing human in the kid I saw. If my partner hadn't fired when he did, I wouldn't be here not talking with you."

"Gotcha. We'll be careful. Thanks again."

Lake checked the street and sidewalk then left the car and retraced his steps down Norstand to Avenue D. As soon as he was out of sight, Fontana called the squad and asked for any and all files pertaining to Dominick Anacacis.

_They'll be on my desk by the time I get back, which should give me time to skim them before Tammy's service…._

He checked his phone's message list even though his phone had not rang.

_Nothing from Judith… damn… hope she's doing okay…._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
9 July

Olivia Benson started the shift exhausted. After Fred's interment the day before, she had gone straight to Bryant Park to oversee the setup for Tammy's memorial service.

_The Policewomen's Association pulled every string in the city to get a city park and all the permits and permissions so quickly… I know Judith made some calls; she said her parents knew some of the directors of the Bryant Park Corporation… of course, it helps that Bryant Park was free that day, that Tammy died line-of-duty, and that the NYPD is in charge of permitting…._

The service had been a secular version of Fred's funeral with many of the same dignitaries present to speak and to listen to her eulogies.

_Cragen spoke even better for Tammy… odd—I always thought she irritated him_….

Afterwards, when the bagpipes were put away and the helicopters in the fly-over had landed, after the park was put to rights and the last mourner had left, Benson went home and slept the night and day through.

_Stress, loss, a sense that too many things are wrong with no idea how to fix them… I just ran out of steam… sixteen hours of sleep isn't enough to get me caught up…._

The first thing she noticed upon arrival is that Fred's desk had been cleared of his things. She asked Sue about it and was told his sister come by that afternoon to pick them up.

"I have an address for Tammy's parents," Sue said. "If you can sort through her desk this evening, I'll make sure her stuff gets mailed tomorrow."

"Sure, no problem. I guess it's time to get back to normal around here."

Sue's snort showed her opinion of 'normal' as it related to SVU. Olivia agreed with her assessment.

_Normal can't be the same anymore...yeah, we were going to lose Fred and Tammy in a couple weeks, but transferring isn't the same as dying.... now, every time we come to work, we'll walk past their photos on the memorial wall... we'll remember—damn, I hope we'll remember... I don't want to reach the point where what happened to them means nothing to me...._

The Friday shift meeting ran without Cragen, Otten, or Sofarelli.

"I know you've heard," Howie announced, "that we have a pay contract."

He waited for the cheers to subside before saying, "The negotiation committee is holding a press conference at five p.m. so Captain Cragen will be out for the evening. He left word to call his cell if he's needed. The only other thing I have is that Larsen will be out until Monday. His mother broke her hip in a fall today and he had to go to Rochester to be with her. Munch will be working for him; Olivia, it's a day-off swap—John's Saturday and Sunday for Greg's Monday and Tuesday."

Olivia made a note to change the duty roster.

"Only update I have," she told the assembled detectives, "is that Otten and Sofarelli are working a lead on the Dykeman rapes. If it pans out, expect to lend a hand."

As Bewster's shift left, Olivia grabbed a mug of coffee and an empty copy paper box and took them to Tammy's desk.

"Need help?" Fin asked.

"Sure," Olivia replied with a hand wave at the right-hand desk drawers. "If you start there," she said, "I'll get this side."

The two worked through the files and objects left by Tammy. Case notes and other work-related papers were piled for sorting into the proper case files. Printouts of departmental e-mail, calendars of events, newsletters, and other minutia went into the trash. Tammy's personal papers and keepsakes: her pink ceramic mug, her big green "Everyone's Irish Today" button, her credit card bill in its unstamped envelope—all personal items were placed in the cardboard box.

They worked silently, more intent on finishing than what they were sorting, until Olivia opened the middle desk drawer and found a single computer-printed sheet. She held it out for Fin to read:

Signs the SV Unit Commander doesn't like you:

He refers to you as our 'anger management poster child'

Your computer access is restricted to the Teletubbies web site

When you speak in meetings, you have to use your Donald Duck voice

He sends you undercover as a male prostitute—alone

Afterwards, he demands all of your earnings (and a freebie)

You get a special phone number to call for back-up: 1-800-FLOWERS

Your car has a flat tire and a serial killer hiding in the trunk

Your only assignment is 'locker door integrity tester'

He lies about a 'SVU conference' then sends you to Siberia… one-way

Everyone has to kiss his ring, but you have to kiss his Prince Albert

Fin rolled his eyes as he read the list.

"Where'd this came from?" he asked.

"Tammy must have written it," Olivia replied.

She pointed to the phrase 'anger management poster child.'

"It's not capitalized and it's in single-quotes. Tammy does—did the same in her reports."

Fin glanced at the coffee machine, where Elliot was talking baseball with John.

"You gonna to throw it away?"

Olivia considered the paper in her hands.

_We could use a laugh right now... if Elliot doesn't see the humor in it, well—screw him...._

"Why? It's the last joke Tammy will ever pull on anyone."

Olivia ripped two strips of tape from the dispenser on Tammy's desk and walked over to the refrigerator.

"Whatcha got there, Liv?" John called out.

"Something I found in Tammy's desk."

She stuck the list on the fridge door and returned to Tammy's desk. From there, she watched John and Elliot read it.

_John's not laughing... Elliot just went stiff... probably didn't get past the first line.…_

Others in the squadroom wandered over to see what was going on. Elliot shoved his way through them with John hard on his heels. They both halted by Tammy's desk. John's tight-lipped indignation contrasted with Elliot's florid fury.

"What the hell was that?" Elliot demanded.

"Don't raise your voice at me," Olivia told him. "I didn't write it; Tammy did."

He leaned forward and braced his fists on the desk.

"Blaming a dead woman," he sneered. "What's the matter—can't handle the fallout from your own actions?"

Before Olivia could retort, Munch pointed a finger at her.

"That was a cheap shot, Liv," he said. "Settting Elliot up for ridicule like that; I'm surprised at you."

Next to Olivia, Fin drew himself up and glared at Munch.

" 'Setting people up for ridicule," he repeated in a passable imitation of John's nasality. "You got nowhere to go and nothing to talk about."

"Drop it," Elliot warned, his gaze firmly focused on Benson. "This is my beef, not yours."

"A beef?" Olivia replied as she folded her arms across her chest. "Is that what you call it? I call it hypersensitivity and low self-esteem."

"What do you mean 'nothing to talk about'?" John shot back. "I know a cheap, underhanded slam when I see one."

Elliot glared at Olivia. "I react to an unprovoked attack from you and you hit me with psychobabble."

"It was not cheap or underhanded," Olivia told him, "and I didn't sneak in to post it the way Tammy would have."

Fin stepped sideways to face John. "Underhanded slams are your specialty, especially the ones in the back...."

"Backstabber?" John shouted. "You calling me a backstabber?"

Elliot straightened with his chin jutting out at Olivia.

"I didn't decide to pick the perp over the victim," he snapped. "That was you...."

"Damn straight I am. Tellin' lies about people, picking at them like they's scabs...."

"I had a perfectly good reason to doubt her story—a reason you didn't bother to even try to listen to!"

""You're the one dumping on people like they're toilets, showing all the loyalty of a crack whore...."

"I've never ignored evidence when deciding guilt...."

"You and your holier than God crap...."

"Only sanctified person around here is you—Olivia, patron saint of wheezy rapists."

Olivia slammed her hand down on Tammy's desk and the shouting ceased, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing and the hoots and come-ons from the men in the holding tank. She ignored both them and the shock on the faces of the other SVU personnel to focus on the two men before her.

"Stabler," she said, "you got a problem with that joke, then you take it up with Tammy. Try e-mailing her at afterlife-dot-com. Munch—I don't care what you think. I've had my fill of you acting like a jilted woman over Fin."

Fin's head snapped around so fast, she heard his neck cartilage crack.

"I need an ass busted," he snarled at her, "I'll bust it. Don't go doin' it for me."

Fin stomped from the room without a backward glance. She turned to John, who still was quivering like a greyhound ready for the starting gate. He spat a guttural expletive and took the stairs out of there, two risers at a time.

That left Elliot. His wrist twitched and twisted as though he wanted to raise a fist and hit her, but he held his arms ramrod straight at his side. His eyes were wide as if he didn't believe what he was saying, but his voice held steady for the five words he spoke.

"Benson, you go to hell."

"You first!"

He spun on his heel and left, blowing past the holding tank and ignoring the catcalls of the men inside. She jerked around and focused on the contents of Tammy's box, holding perfectly still until everyone had returned to their interrupted tasks. Whatever they were muttering was lost in the rapid pounding of her heart and the rush of adrenaline-fueled blood through her veins.

_Damn those two—and Fin... should think he'd notice I was backing him up...damn him, too... good thing Cragen wasn't here to see that... can't get any more dysfunctional... his fault for not being around to run things..._

Her next breath caught in her throat.

_Not Cragen… me… he made me lead and all this happened while I was here… great, now it's my fault…._

She looked up, away from the stuff Tammy left behind, and stared in space.

_What the fuck am I going to do about this?_


	21. Hurricane: part five

Office of Anita Van Buren  
Manhattan Homicide  
9 July

Lieutenant Van Buren blew the steam from her morning mug of precinct coffee.

_We're five days into this case… One P.P. is calling every three hours for updates… Major Case is starting to make noises again… not to mention the media…._

She glanced down at her desk, where that day's newspaper lay. "Day Five—Zero Arrests" was printed over large photos of Tierney and White; smaller photos of Weston and Bashir filled out the page.

_Fontana and Green better have something soon… like right now…._

They were at her door, both holding manila folders and their own coffee mugs. She waved them in and pointed to the two side chairs in front oh her desk.

_You guys look beat—lack of sleep, lack of progress, lack of faith in you from the rest of the squad… I've seen the way you're being treated… soon as I find out who heaped your desks with copies of this front page, someone getting a week's suspension…_

Neither detective mentioned the harassment or the pressure while they settled into the chairs and arranged their notes for the morning report.

"The files on Dominick Anacacis could have been written with quill pens for all the current info they had," Joe told her. "The last entry was a formal notice that Anacacis had been released from Fishkill Correctional Facility in June of 2001 after doing three of a five-year sentence for trafficking in narcotics."

"Joe and me checked with people we know in Brooklyn Narcotics," Ed said. "Seems Anacacis went back to Santa Cruz del Seibo—that's his home town in the Dominican Republic—in December of 2001."

"When did he come back to the city?" she asked.

Ed flipped a page of his notes. "He didn't—at least, not under his real name. Brooklyn Narcotics told us that they started getting reports of a new major player in early 2006. All they got on him is a street name: 'Double-Dom.' All his products are marked with two capital Ds."

"The Dominican Republic is a major transit hub for cocaine, heroin, and ecstasy, " Joe noted as he scanned his notes. "We figure Anacacis took what he learned about the retail end of the business here and used it to establish a new distribution system."

"So you think Dominick Anacacis from the Dominican Republic is Double-Dom," Van Buren said. "Sounds plausible. Narcotics ever bust this Double-Dom?"

Fontana closed his folder and removed his reading glasses. "Nope. The guy's slipperier than bin Laden and not much better looking."

"You got his photo?"

Joe gave her a photo of a short, wiry man in his early thirties: dark skin, black hair, dark eyes. He was wearing a prison coverall with his name and the number assigned to him at FCF.

"This is from 2001," Joe told her. "There's nothing more recent."

Ed put his mug on her desk so he could shuffle through his papers.

"We do have a possible link to him," he said as he handed over a DMV photo. "Sam Hasan, twenty-one, immigrated from Pakistan with his family when he was six. His family is related to the Bashirs and he works for them at the Lucky Food Store. We brought him in first thing this morning after his shift."

"Why?"

"Because my partner and I needed a night's sleep in our own beds and a crack at a civilized bathroom," Fontana informed her. "I don't mind working 24/7 on this case, but Sing Sing provides felons better showers than…."

Van Buren shook her head at him. He blinked at her for a moment then the light dawned.

"You want to know why we brought Hasan in, not why we waited until this morning?"

Ed muffled a chuckle. Van Buren smiled and pointed at his coffee mug.

"You're a bit slow this morning, detective. Better get another cup before you do any heavy thinking."

Fontana drew himself up and shrugged off her amusement.

"Well, Hasan has been working at the store for only two weeks. Before that, he lived and worked near Coney Island. Neighbors there say he was dealing Double-Dom product out of his apartment, but he moved without telling anyone. Mrs. Bashir told us he said he wanted go to California, but didn't have enough money."

Van Buren held up the DMV photo.

"Okay, so maybe Hasan is tied to Anacacis, but how does Jason Meade fit into this?"

Joe and Ed exchanged worried glances.

_I guess I just found the giant hole in your theory of the crime… you guys better have something to patch it with…._

"Well," Ed drew out the word to show how speculative the answer was, "According to Narcotics, Anacacis had high-priced tastes, especially in firearms, and he liked his sex partners young, male, and completely obedient. Brandon Stone was found in one of his crack houses, where he tried to kill a cop with a pricey Italian handgun. Stone never told anyone why he was there or who he'd been living with."

Van Buren waited for something more substantial from Green. When he said nothing more, she folded her arms on her desk and leaned towards him.

"That's it?"

_At least they got the good grace to look sheepish about this…._

"Lieu," Ed said, "we know it's a stretch, but we think Brandon was Anacacis'… Joe, what was that word you used?"

"Catamite," Joe replied. "It's a young boy used for sex. The word derives from Ganymede, cup-bearer and sex toy of the Greek god Zeus."

Van Buren rolled her eyes at his show of erudition.

"The stuff you know, Fontana…."

The older man attempted a smug smile, but days of overwork weighed it down. Ed cleared his throat.

"Anyway, we're thinking Jason Meade is Anacacis' current catamite. We don't exactly know how he got Meade—maybe he placed an order for a young boy before he left for El Seibo. If you have enough money, you can buy anything—even a four-year-old."

"Okay, so you think this Hasan guy is running from Double-Dom and that Jason Meade was sent to the bodega to warn or kill him?"

Ed let out a long sigh.

"That we can't prove—"

"We can't prove it yet," Joe added. "But, do you have another reason why he'd be carrying a Beretta 93R? If the kid picked up a piece on the streets, it wouldn't be a sixteen thousand dollar weapon."

"That doesn't explain why Meade killed four people who weren't Hasan?"

Joe held his hands out and shrugged.

"Could be, when Meade didn't find Hasan at the store, he decided that killing his relative and boss was just as good. Fred and Tammy and Weston were the icing on the cake, so to speak."

Van Buren took a long sip of her coffee while she considered their theory.

_There are parallels between Brandon Stone and Jason Meade, but not enough to convince a judge or the D.A.… be much better if we could tie either kid directly to Anacacis…._

"You said Brandon Stone was at Kirby. You planning to talk to him?"

Joe nodded. "We have an appointment with his shrink later this morning. If he gives the okay, maybe Brandon will fill us in on his past."

"And if he can't or won't…?"

Both men hissed breaths through clenched teeth.

_Oh-oh…._

"This case is twisted enough," she admonished them. "What have you cooked up now?"

Ed pointed at his partner. "This one is Joe's idea."

"And it's a good one," Fontana insisted. "I asked COP SHOT to send its public-address van through the Watson Avenue area in Brooklyn and any other areas where Double-Dom is distributing his product. The reward for Fred and Tammy's killer is up to $50,000—ten thou from COP SHOT, twenty-five from the benevolent associations and the rest from private citizens. That kind of money might flush out someone who knows where Anacacis and Meade are hanging their hats."

Van Buren pursed her lips and glared at the older detective.

_COP SHOT… tip line offering a reward whenever a police officer gets shot… I'd rather live in a world where people didn't need a cash reward for reporting a murderer… but driving around broadcasting a $50,000 reward will get results… and the attention of every crackpot in Brooklyn…._

"You know their tip line going to be flooding with false alarms."

Fontana's smile barely twitched his moustache. "If one of them leads us to Meade, it's worth it. Besides, I promised to work answering phones tonight; it's the least I can do to help with the flood."

To his right, Ed shifted in his chair then rocked his right hand back and forth, pointing his index finger at her then at himself. Van Buren nodded.

"That's real thoughtful of you, Fontana. Why don't you get started with Hasan? I need to talk to your partner about the next case update with the brass."

"Sure thing, ma'am."

As soon as the door closed behind him, Ed slid his chair closer to her desk.

"Lieu, Joe isn't volunteering tonight to just to be nice—"

"I figured that. Your partner isn't the Boy Scout type."

He held his hands open as though he were trying to hand off the problem, not describe it.

"Joe's not sleeping. He's running on coffee and not much more. If he smoked, he'd be at a carton a day. I've never seen him on edge before, but right now, he's like a strung-out ballet dancer teetering on one toe trying not to fall."

_Fontana in a tutu... scenic, Ed—real scenic...._

Aloud, she asked, "His nerves related to the case or to this Judith woman?

"Judith, I think. It's been a week since he handed her all his personal data and all she's done is leave messages on his phone. He's stopped telling me that she's a done deal. He's stopped talking about her all together."

The flash of anger that ran through her surprised Anita.

_How dare she? I know Fontana's got his problems, but no one disrespects one of my people like that...._

She took a sip of now-tepid coffee and forced the anger aside.

_Fontana's got me rooting for him now... I know he's a dog, but it never seems to matter...._

"It's been a bad week for everyone, Ed," she reminded him. "More likely, they really are misconnecting. I'll remind Joe that he needs to keep his head in this investigation and let all this Judith stuff settle out in its own time."

"Thanks, Lieu."

He grabbed his notes and mug and stood up. Van Buren aimed a finger at him.

"That message goes for you, too. I told you this case was twisted and the twisted ones can trip you up good. Don't let it happen, Ed—not to you or your partner."

The solemn gravity in his eyes told her the message had been received. She accompanied him from the office, parting ways when he headed to the interrogation room. Her own path took her to Tim Bradley's desk.

"A word to the wise, detective," she told the sandy-haired man. "The part-time jobs allowed for NYPD personnel don't include paperboy."

His startled twitch proved she'd caught her culprit.

"Throw all those papers away," she said sternly, "and see me in my office."

Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center  
Ward Island, NY  
9 July

Fontana and Green were outside the day room of Ward 3-East at Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center, the Criminal Justice Department's maximum security hospital on Ward Island.

_I bet Joe feels naked right now…._

Security rules required them to leave their hardware and their neckties outside the ward...

_... in case one of the inmates decides to strangle us... Joe tried to pocket that blue flowered tie of his… didn't work… they locked up with his .38…._

The day room itself was brighter and more cheerful than Ed had expected. Posters of kittens, puppy dogs, and a clutch of yellow ducklings hung on the walls and a family of meerkats scampered across the screen of the TV in the corner. Two men in jeans and t-shirts were watching the meerkats while another slept in a chair by them, his head tipped back to allowed for maximum snoring. A fourth man sat a table working a crossword puzzle; across from him, an older man hummed tunelessly as he stared into space.

_I remember him... Jake Whitted... blinded a neighbor lady with a kitchen fork, then beat her to death... he told Lennie she was watching him shower via her microwave oven...._

Two security staffers, men dressed in KFPC T-shirts and slacks, stood against the wall and observed the men in the room.

_But we're not here for Whitted or the rest of them... it's the guy at the window that we need... the skinny kid with the shaggy blond hair... according to his shrink, Brandon Stone spends every day standing there...._

"According to his records, neither the police nor CPS investigators learned where Brandon Stone came from or why he was in that crack house on the night of the twenty-ninth of May. He appeared at least eighteen months younger than his chronological age of twelve and he was mildly malnourished. He could read only at a third grade level and showed signs of long-term physical and sexual abuse, but was otherwise physically healthy. Emotionally—well, that's another story."

The info came from Dr. Daniel Homer, the forensic psychologist assigned to this ward. Dr. Homer had the look of a seagull thanks to his gray shirt, black pants and white hair.

_And his hobby is painting seascapes... maybe, under those Dockers, his knees bend backwards like a bird...._

Dr. Homer continued to fill them in, unaware of Green's curiosity about his joints.

"A psychological evaluation done when he was found showed Brandon to have Antisocial Personality Disorder, a catchall diagnosis misapplied in this case. Brandon wasn't completely unmindful of the needs and wants of others; he was focused only on the needs and wants of one person."

"Himself?" Green asked.

"No. Someone Brandon calls 'Chief'. To Brandon, Chief is the source of everything Brandon needs. Were I the one diagnosing Brandon back when he first was found, I'd call his condition Stockholm Syndrome, not APD."

"Did Brandon ever identify who this Chief was?" Green asked.

Dr. Homer shook his head. "No, and he did not react to photos of likely candidates."

"Doctor," Fontana said, "what brought Brandon to Kirby?"

"It's a sad story—typical in many respects of everyone here. When they couldn't locate Brandon's family, CFS tried several foster placements, all failures. Brandon attacked one family's cat for leaving a hairball by his shoes. Another time, he held a toddler up by the throat for getting between him and the TV. CFS then placed him in a group home, where he assaulted a house parent and several residents for telling him what to do. That got him placed in Crossroads Juvenile Center, from which he was released when he turned eighteen."

"What?" Ed asked. "No half-way placement?"

Dr. Homer sneered at the suggestion.

"The Department of Juvenile Justice, in its not-so-infinite wisdom, said 'You're an adult now and you haven't hurt anyone recently so bye-bye, Brandon'. Needless to say, he was back in custody within days—this time for beating up a prostitute who insisted on payment. Brandon thought he deserved a freebie to celebrate his release, so to speak."

Fontana hooked a thumb at the building visible through the window where Brandon was, a building similar to Kirby except for its lack of razor-wire fencing.

"That got him sent to Manhattan Psych?"

"Yes. Brandon's refusal to control his behavior continued there. When an older inmate tried to befriend him, Brandon decided he was trying to take Chief's place in his life. He beat the man's head against a door jamb until he killed him. The jury returned a verdict of 'Not Guilty by reason of mental defect or insanity' and Brandon ended up on my patient list."

Ed asked, "Have you been able to help him any?"

"No, not a bit. According to Brandon, his only problem is that he is not with Chief. When Chief returns, all will be perfect. Until then, Brandon doesn't have to obey anyone because only Chief can tell him what to do."

"That must make him difficult to control."

Dr. Homer nodded. "One of the many reasons the staff here have the most dangerous job in the state. We provide our inmates counseling, appropriate drug therapies, and a secure environment, but we can't predict when someone will become violent or who will be attacked. Should one of these men try to make physical contact with you—shake your hand or hug you, step away from him. It's safer than way."

Ed edged back from the door.

_Damn right I'll keep away from these guys... I like my eyes right where they belong...._

Dr. Homer nodded at the nearer of the two security staff. The man walked over to the window where Brandon was standing.

"You have company, Brandon," he said. "Let's go see them."

Brandon turned his head to look at the day room door. His slack jaw and glazed eyes warned the detectives that his particular therapy included strong drugs.

"Not Chief. Not going."

Brandon turned back to the view through the barred window.

"I can have Mike insist," Dr. Homer whispered, "but Brandon will cause a scene."

Ed caught his partner's attention and shook his head. Joe's tight frown signaled his agreement.

"It's not worth it, doc," Joe told him. "Thank you anyway, but he won't be any help to us."

In the elevator, on their way down to Security, Ed leafed through the data Dr. Homer had given them on Stockholm Syndrome.

"This calls it a 'successful mechanism for coping with certain psychologically traumatic situations.' Don't seem that successful to me."

"Maybe the shrinks define success as not being dead," Joe mused. "What else does say?"

Ed read from the article, "'Situations conducive to Stockholm Syndrome have three indicators. First is a grossly uneven power relationship with the captor having complete control over the victim. Second is the perception of kindness from the captor, although the 'kindness' may only be permission to live and endure more abuse. Third is an instinct for self-preservation on the part of the prisoner. Given the right circumstances, only a few days are needed for the syndrome to set in, and its effects can last for years after the victim is released from his captor's control.'"

The elevator halted at the ground floor. They collected their weapons, handcuffs, and ties from the security desk. Neither said anything more about the case until they were in the parking lot. The bright sunshine and summer breeze off the river did little to cheer their moods.

Ed leaned against the fender and skimmed the rest of the article while Joe knotted his tie.

"Seems like kids are more susceptible to this," Ed commented, his finger pointing at a paragraph on the page before him. "This says that children who are loved by their families expect to be accepted and loved by others. Their need acts in the same way as self-preservation does for an adult."

He looked over at his partner. "That means Brandon would do anything to get and keep Chief's love..."

"...even if that 'love' consisted of daily abuse with only random crumbs of affection tossed his way," Joe finished the thought. "Which means Jason Meade will be just as loyal and just as twisted."

"Yeah. Sounds like our only hope of finding him is if someone hates Double-Dom enough to turn him in."

Joe beamed smugly at him.

"That's why we're sending COP SHOT to Brooklyn. That fifty thousand ought to buy someone's disloyalty. "

His phone trilled.

"That's Van Buren," Ed said. "One P.P. called for their briefing and she's passing their crap onto us."

Joe pulled the ringing phone from his pocket and held it out to his partner.

"You're primary. Want to answer it?"

Ed stepped back and held up both hands. "Your phone, your crap."

"Thanks, pal" Joe groused as he thumbed the button and held the phone to his face. "Fontana."

To Ed's amazement, Joe froze, his jaw slack and his eyes wide.

"Uh… hello, Judith. How are you?"

_No hand gestures, no grin... something's wrong.…_

Ed slid his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the car to listen. Thirty seconds of non-committals gave him no clue how the conversation was going.

"Okay… yeah… sure… okay…I can see that…."

_Maybe he's practicing for being hen-pecked…._

Ed stifled a laugh just as Joe jerked as though brushed with a high-voltage wire.

"That's… that's… thing is, our best lead just turned out to be a medicated nutcase. Can I call you later? How late? Okay… until then… um… I love you—yeah."

Joe thumbed the 'end' button then threw his head back and blew out a long explosive breath. Ed stepped in front of him and raised an eyebrow at his partner.

"Are congratulations are in order yet?"

Joe blinked twice then forced a grin. "Yeah, yeah—they are. Told you it was a done deal...."

_Sure, bro… that's why you're shaking so hard…._

"I just wasn't expecting the news today—at least, not right this minute."

"S'okay; I understand."

_I understand you were scared she'd say 'Hell, no!'...._

"So you finally got the girl of your dreams?"

The smile drained from his partner's face.

"Don't mention dreams."

Joe slumped against the Taurus next to Ed.

"I've been dreaming the security tape from the Lucky Food Store—over and over, every night. Judith is always Tammy; I'm always Fred. Sometimes, you're Weston; Judith dies, then you, and I'm last. Sometimes, it's—you remember Jeremy Miller?"

"Yeah—kid who blew his brains out in that park near Children's Healing Place."

Joe's head jerked up and down. "First time this happened, he was Weston. Last night, I dreamt I took Judith back to Chicago and my dad was Weston. Same dream, same result—only difference from the tape is the location and who dies."

Ed winced at the thought of sleep, their only respite from this case, being haunted by yet more dying.

"There's some heavy shit on that tape, Joe. You watched it what—six times?"

"Seven, but who's counting?"

"Your brain needs time to process it. That's not the kind of shit you can just blow off."

Joe waved that idea away with a flip of his hand.

"I'm fine with the tape. It's seeing Judith, you, my family dying over and over. It's like a bad TV show I have to watch every night."

Ed nodded in agreement while he checked how 'fine' Joe really was.

_Eyes blood-shot and bleary... breathing just a bit fast... you're not handling this as well as you want me to think... 'course, I'm not sleeping all that good myself... maybe it's from worry about Judith—you'd never admit you could be wrong about something or that some woman could turn you down...._

He made a mental note to be more forthright with his partner if he started acting odd again then he grabbed the passenger's door handle.

"Then let's get going. We'll get those drug buy locations Hasan gave us to COP SHOT and see what happens. Sooner this is wrapped up, sooner you can spend some time with a living Judith."

Joe reached into his pants pocket for the keys.

"Sounds good to me, although first things first. I had some earrings made for Judith and I want to get them delivered to her this afternoon. We'll take care of that on the way back to the precinct."

SVU Squadroom  
9 July

The lead that Otten and Sofarelli were checking out at the beginning of their shift had come from Brad Reed, one of Fontana's snitches. Reed had seen a flyer on a bulletin board in a Hudson University dorm while delivering a lunch order of pizza; the flyer advertised an aquamarine pendant similar to a custom-made necklace stolen by the Dykeman rapist. Reed had left the flyer where he found it, but he had given Otten the first name and phone number from the rip-off tabs on its lower edge.

That flyer, now in a signed and sealed bag in the precinct's evidence locker, and its name and phone number had led the detectives to Steven Jay Barnett of 1540 Pelham Parkway South in the Bronx. According to his DMV data, he fit the composition description of the Dykeman rapist. Barnett didn't reside near Dykeman Street, but Novak and Sofarelli were able to convince a judge to sign a warrant to search his apartment and, if other stolen merchandise was found, to bring him in.

"So," Judith was telling Olivia as they sat at the table in the upstairs lounge, "Barnett sees the warrant and tries to bolt past Couch through the front door."

Olivia paused with her coffee mug almost to her lips.

"Really? Most guys head for the fire escape."

"Not Barnett and for a very good reason; his bedroom was filled with loot: portable stereos, jewelry cases, change purses, wallets—all of it matching items taken from the break-ins around Dykeman Street."

"So you got him. Good job."

Judith winced at the praise as though it might jinx their case.

"Maybe not. Barnett claims everything belongs to a roommate. His neighbors say he has been living alone for since April. I ran him by the lab for a DNA swab before bringing him in. Warner promised to rush the results to us."

Olivia frowned. "Did Barnett volunteer it?"

The older woman nodded. "Unfortunately, we can't get the fingerprint report from the stolen items yet. The bus shooting on Webster is ahead of us; I pulled every string I know of, but it takes a long time to dust and match a city bus."

She sighed, then said, "If Barnett's swab clears him, then we'll have to break his story about the roommate. Couch stayed behind to catalogue the stolen items; as soon as he gets here, we'll tackle Barnett."

Olivia raised her mug in salute. "Still sounds like the end is in sight."

Judith touched her coffee mug to Olivia's, a move that brought her right hand level with Olivia's eyes.

_You've moved your wedding ring… I know you're not dating… must be an anniversary thing…._

"I can't wait to get that giant video screen away from my desk," Judith said. "It drew too much attention while we were spinning our wheels on this."

She then glanced around the lounge then up the stairs to the next floor before twisting in her chair to see the squadroom below them.

"Speaking of attention—where is everyone?"

Olivia shrugged to cover her discomfort at the question.

_Munch is on the roof, Elliot is in the weight room and Fin—well, he phoned in to say if I needed him to call… I'm still trying to figure out how to explain this to Cragen… and I'd better change the subject before you ask why, too... quick, think of something—coffee? Clothes? Hairstyles? Wait....don't you usually wear pearls in your ears?_

She peered at Judith's left ear.

_Opal, I think...dark blue with flecks of vivid green, cut into half-inch ovals... lovely mountings... someone paid a pretty penny for those... not something Judith would choose for herself... they're a bit flashy...._

"Your earrings are lovely."

Judith's head jerked up and her eyes went wide.

"Oh," she said, "yes—earrings. I got them today."

The odd way Judith's gaze was aimed at Olivia without making eye contact caught Olivia's curiosity. She put her elbows on the table and leaned forward.

"You treated yourself? Found something you couldn't resist?"

Olivia raised an eyebrow at Otten and watched as the woman's lips twitched ever so slightly.

_Odd... she acts like she's lying... if this were an interrogation, this is where she would try to throw me off the trail…._

"I'm not much for shopping," Judith replied. "If I could, I'd have a personal assistant like my parents. Louisa not only runs their errands, she also does light housekeeping, and makes sure they both take their pills. Artistic types just don't seem to remember important things like pills."

Judith sipped her coffee. Olivia raised her head and glared her.

_Why are you acting like you need to pull one over on me?_

She tapped the table in front of Judith to get her attention.

_One more chance before I get mad...._

"That's interesting, but I asked about your earrings."

"They're a _mattan_," Judith replied, dismissing the earrings with a shrug. "Want some fresh coffee?"

She grabbed her mug and stood up. Olivia held out her mug to accept the polite offer then she snatched it back.

_Son of a bitch! I almost fell for it…._

Benson rose from his chair in a slow motion that was part emphasis, part threat.

"You and I discussed this after the Chestnut fiasco, remember?" she said, anger putting an edge on her words. "Crap like this belongs in Interrogation—not between you and me. Tell me what is going on and don't try blaming it on funerals or your mother's birthday party tomorrow night."

Under the intense scrutiny of Benson in full hard-ass mode, Otten's frown dissolved into a deep sigh.

"Okay," she said, "Do you want the short version or the one with the eight-by-ten color photos with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back?"

"How about no more smoke-screens?" Olivia demanded, her attention on spotting any further evasions.

Judith accepted the scrutiny with a glare and a hard swallow then she said, "A week ago, Joe Fontana proposed to me."

Olivia's coffee mug slid through fingers made numb with shock to hit the table with a thud.

"You've got to be kidding. Not Smugtana."

Judith drew herself tall in her seat.

"You going to listen or what?"

She told Olivia about her date at the Veneto Club and how Fontana had tried to sweep her off her feet and under a _huppah_.

"Huh?"

"Marriage canopy," the older woman explained. "We don't go to the altar for weddings; we go under a canopy, a _huppah_.

Judith next told Olivia that, to prove he was not scamming her, Fontana had handed over his financials, the property records for his condo, the P&L and balance sheet for his brother's construction company, his personal 1040s for the past five years, a list of his stock holdings, ...

"So he isn't on the take?"

"I really hate to disappoint you, but no—he's not."

… a copy of his medical records and a leather Filofax. In it, Judith found the names, phone numbers, and the sexual and lingerie preferences of dozens and dozens of women, including Tamara Landis, Cammie Landis-Otten's mother.

Olivia snorted coffee at the news.

_That will make Otten family gatherings even more special...._

Judith then informed Olivia that detectives from Chicago's Wentworth Area homicide squad and his family's parish priest confirmed his story.

"At that point," Judith continued, "I seriously considered accepting. It was very flattering to have a handsome man offer to be my Prince Charming."

Olivia clenched her teeth to keep from laughing.

"Oh, come on…."

"Oh, I didn't stay infatuated for long," Judith assured her. "I knew that he is disliked by everyone I work with, and hated by Cammie and Derek. I'd be ignoring the rules David and I set for our sons about dating and choosing Jewish wives. I also would be joining a line of women that stretches the length of Manhattan—not to mention the Bronx, Chicago, northern Italy, and who knows where else."

Judith checked inside her empty mug as though hoping coffee had magically appeared for her to drink.

"And," she continued, "I had no guarantee that he wouldn't get bored and leave. Joe has had forty years of sowing wild oats. I doubted he's going to be happy with oatmeal for the rest of his life."

Olivia winced at the harsh way Judith described herself.

"Sounds like you made the right decision."

"That's what I thought," Judith replied. "I figured he deserved to get the news in person so I made arrangements to meet Joe after end-of-shift on the Fourth."

"That was the night Fred and Tammy got shot."

Judith nodded. "And our meeting never happened. We spent the next few days playing phone tag, both of us so busy we couldn't talk on the phone, let alone get together. By Wednesday night, I was sick of the stress; all I wanted was to get this over with."

The shift was subtle—a slowing in Judith's breathing, her fingers relaxing their interlacing around her mug. Her mouth curved up slightly, a twitch Olivia caught only because she feared Otten would try again to slip something past her.

"The morning of Fred's funeral, Joe left a message that wasn't the usual 'Call me back when you get a chance.' He told me he knew how hard the day would be for me and he understood the grief and the hurt and the fear I was feeling. Listening to him was like having arms wrapped around me and a promise that everything would be all right…."

Judith's eyes moistened as she remembered.

"I didn't realize how much I missed that."

Olivia leaned forward as the older woman blinked to clear her eyes.

"But... from Fontana?"

Judith's crooked smile admitted the disconnect in what she had just said.

"I know; I know—a warm, loving hug from someone who is arrogant, unreliable, and blatantly hedonistic. It put me right back on the razor's edge, unable to stay where I was and completely unsure where to jump to. On one side was a guy who said the right things and acted like he cared, but whom I didn't fully trust. On the other side was exactly what I have right now—familiar and safe."

Her shoulders sagged and the crooked smile dissolved into a rueful frown.

"I couldn't take the confusion anymore so I called him today and told him."

The slump of her shoulders told Olivia how much the decision to dump Fontana pained the older woman. She reached over and patted Judith's hand.

"I know how you feel," she said, her voice low and comforting. "Anyone would feel bad about bursting his bubble like that. Afterwards, I'd probably do the same thing you did—splurge on something to make me feel better. Maybe not earrings, but...."

The complete lack of expression on Judith's face halted her words.

_She goes any more blank and I'll have to check for a pulse…._

Olivia peered directly at the older woman's face.

"You did stick with your decision, didn't you?"

Judith met Olivia's question with a steely glare.

"No, I flipped a coin. If you don't mind, I'm going to check on Barnett."

She snatched her mug from the table and headed downstairs. The sharp click of her shoes on the treads was replaced by the clatter of carafe against coffee machine before Olivia shook off her shock and went to the railing.

"You telling me," she called down at Otten, "you're engaged to Smugtana?"

Judith kept her attention on the hot liquid pouring into her mug.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Judith slammed the carafe on its hot plate and left for the interrogation room without another word, her brisk steps and stiff carriage showing Olivia how offensive that question was. Olivia slumped against the railing, ignoring the press of the iron rail against her forearms, and stared at the empty squadroom.

_We've all gone batshit crazy... every damn one of us..._


	22. The Eye of the Storm

A/N: If you haven't read "The Giraffe and the Bear", please do so. It explains a few things mentioned in this chapter. Also, there is foul language in this chapter..

Note bene: It's calm in the eye of the storm, but do not be fooled. The storm always returns.

Office of Audrey Jackson, Ph.D.  
141 East 55th Street, Manhattan  
10 July

Elliot took the stairs and pulled open the door to Dr. Jackson's waiting room with four minutes to spare. Inside was a tan leather love seat, two matching arm chairs, end tables scattered with magazines, a flat-screen TV and some framed colored blotches that probably were art, and his wife.

"Elliot."

Kathy straightened in her chair when she saw him as if trying to make a good first impression through posture and alertness. Her smile was tentative and her eyes wide, friendly, uneasy.

_Tan slacks, pale green blouse, hair's shorter... I guess she got it cut... she looks great...._

He held his teeth together and smiled, unsure exactly how happy he should appear.

_Don't want to look like I miss her... even though I do...._

"It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too," she said.

He held the smile until the corners of his mouth started to hurt and the lack of conversation felt leaden around him. Only the whir of an electric clock on the end table broke the room's silence.

"How are the kids?"

"They're fine. Busy doing whatever. Richard wants me to ask if you'll be at his ball game Sunday afternoon."

He nodded. "Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Her polite smile drooped a bit and he realized how little she believed his promise.

_Hey, now that I'm not lead anymore, I can make promises with a better chance of keeping them... how long will it take until you guys start believing me again?_

He looked around the room, a cover for a neck roll to loosen tense muscles.

_Say something... anything...._

"You're looking good," he said.

"So are you."

Kathy pointed at the TV on the wall.

"I saw your press conference. You looked good there, too."

"Yeah?"

She nodded. "I also saw the dirty look John gave you when you ducked out."

Elliot sat down across from her, his feet planted and his back straight.

"Yeah," he said. "Dirty looks weren't all John gave me for that. When I found out the brass scheduled the conference for right before my appointment here, I knew I was going to piss off someone."

"Better John than your superiors?"

Elliot glanced at the ceiling and sighed. "I don't spend every shift with the brass. They can't spit in my coffee."

Kathy's eyes went wide.

"John spits in your coffee?"

Elliot shook his head. "Might improve it if he did."

Kathy recrossed her ankles and fidgeted her fingers, finally settling on interlacing them on her lap.

_Awkward for her, too... is that a good sign?_

"About Fred and Tammy…."

His throat closed down and the lungs in his chest seemed to shrink. For a moment, he was back in his bedroom, sitting alone in the dark as Cragen's voice through his phone gave him the news.

_That news—the news that someone I know is gone always makes me feel cold... it doesn't matter where or when it is... it can be fall in Kuwait, summer in New York, the A/C not working or desert heat blazing like a furnace—doesn't matter... tell me someone I care about is gone and I go cold... like I just died with them...._

Kathy leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, holding her hands out as though offering something to him.

"I'm so sorry, Elliot. I know how much losing them hurts, how hard it is on you and everyone."

He gulped once and tried to smile.

_I shouldn't have to be brave in front of my wife, but I know she's afraid I'll go the same way... I wish I could tell her I worry about it, too...._

"I remember meeting them at someone's retirement party—was it Max Reger's?"

Elliot nodded.

"Wasn't that one where John tried to pick up one of the Brooklyn SVU detectives and you and Fred had to reason with him?"

Elliot had to search for that memory. When it surfaced, he nodded again.

"I'm not sure I'd use 'reason with' to describe forcibly steering John towards Max's father and telling him Grandpa was a big JFK assassination fan."

Kathy stifled a smile. "It worked. John was still discussing it with him when we left."

"Yeah. Max told me later his dad had a wonderful time. Seems he really was interested in what John was dishing out."

The smile Kathy was stifling burst forth, lighting her entire face as she laughed.

_Damn, she looks good... haven't seen her happy in a long time...._

"I should warn you," he said, "John's the one who suggested Dr Jackson. This might be his way of getting even with me."

Kathy jerked her head towards Dr. Jackson's office door.

"John recommended her? John Munch?"

"Yes," he admitted, "he did."

"Funny," Kathy said, "she doesn't look like a covert agent."

"Didn't you see her car parked outside?"

Kathy shook her head.

"It's the Ford Excursion with the bumper sticker that reads 'My other car is a black helicopter.'"

Kathy giggled. The sound was so unexpected and so welcome, he tried another deadpan line.

"Dr. Jackson is trained in eight forms of jiu-jitsu, nine of them lethal."

Kathy's eyebrows shot up.

"Nine?"

"One is super-secret. Even John doesn't know what it's called and that's saying a lot."

His wife laughed again.

_Hey, I'm on a roll...._

Elliot leaned forward and glanced around the room as though about to impart important state secrets. Kathy slid forward and tipped her head closer to listen.

"Dr. Jackson's kill ratio beats Jack Bauer's and almost equals Chuck Norris'."

Kathy turned beet red; Chuck Norris was her guilty pleasure, something he usually claimed ignorance about. He watched as she tried to pretend his joke wasn't funny before failing completely.

_Okay, I got her rolling in the aisle—or at least giggling in her chair... time for a big finish..._

Elliot stood up and waved his arms as though guiding an airplane into its arrival gate.

"She also moonlights as an alien spacecraft greeter at Area 51."

Tears began to stream from Kathy's eyes as she laughed out loud at his imitation. Elliot dropped his arms and sat down next to his wife.

"You okay?"

Kathy's head bobbed up and down.

"I'd forgotten," she said between gasps, "you could be fun."

_So had I... I forgot how much fun we used to have...._

He reached over and put a hand on hers. She clasped it firmly.

When Audrey Jackson opened the door to her office, they still were holding hands.

Erie Basin Auto Pound  
700 Columbia Street  
Brooklyn, NY  
10 July

The crowd in the sunlit car lot was mostly male, a mix of professional auto dealers and private purchasers. The merchandise being offered that morning consisted of decommissioned police cruisers stripped of all departmental equipment, a few city maintenance trucks, and the vehicles seized during various recent police raids. These ranged from a 1979 Mercury Bobcat wagon with so much rust the wheel wells looked like brown lace to the British coupe that drew everyone's attention…

_…Greg Lau's Jaguar XKE…._

Don Cragen and Andrew Beale stood to the left of the auctioneer's gavel block with their backs to the XKE. Both men were dressed in khaki slacks and golf shirts, Beale's powder blue one tucked into his ample waistband, Cragen's navy shirt left out to cover his carry weapon. A folded white card printed with "128", his bid number, was stuck in his breast pocket.

Cragen and Beale's pretense of disinterest in the Jag was matched by five other men in the crowd.

"They are your main competition," Beale noted. "Anyone else will take a flyer at it then drop out when the bidding gets hot."

He tipped his head to his right.

"I talked to Sgt. Burkem while you were registering. Those two in sunglasses, t-shirts and jeans are collectors looking for a restoration project. Burkem said they'll go only thirty-five or so. The skinny guy in the ball cap and bling surrounded by bodyguards is Travis Price, a.k.a. Street-T. His last CD won every award except the Nobel prize for medicine. The white dude with the gold chains is his business manager. If Price really wants the car, he has the money to get it."

Don kept his attention on the silver Lincoln LS with bad shocks on the block before them.

A '62 XKE in this condition is worth about sixty thousand dollars… I'd hate to lose out to some hip-hop artist who just wants a flashy toy….

"The man in the yellow guayabera shirt," Beale continued, "is Antonio Marchietti, who recently retired from the garbage business."

Don's expression shifted from _faux_-bored to stern.

"Don't you mean the Masucci family business?"

"I can't slide anything past you," Beale replied. "His granddaughter is turning sixteen this month, so he's looking for a gift. Probably won't go above book value on it."

Cragen indicated a paunchy man in a windbreaker standing at the edge of the crowd.

"I recognize him," the captain said. "That's Sid Perlman, a book editor at Rudolph and Maartens. We busted his son three years ago for date rape after his high school prom. Kid got psych counseling and two years' probation."

Beale's mouth twisted as though he wanted to spit.

"I'd say something about the laxness of my predecessor, but word might get back to Liz Donnelly. Don't worry about Perlman. He has the look of a man wanting a mid-life crisis-mobile, but whose wife will leave him if he brings one home."

Beale sidled closer to Cragen. "You haven't told me yet. How high are you willing to go?"

Don checked around. No one seemed to be paying them any attention.

"I brought a cashier's check for one hundred thousand."

Beale's eyes went so wide the creases at their corners disappeared. He then clasped Don on the upper arm and shook him with glee.

"Atta boy, Don—go big or go home. If I were French, I'd kiss you in admiration of your audacity."

Cragen's grin was accompanied by a nervous sigh. "This whole deal gives me goose bumps. The thought of spending—"

The gavel came down, signaling the end of bidding on the Lincoln. A man in a Billio & Company t-shirt jumped into the driver's seat and drove it away. Another man in a matching shirt pulled up in the Jaguar.

"Lot 68," the auctioneer announced. "A 1962 Jaguar XKE SI 3.8 Convertible, maroon and biscuit with chrome wire wheels. Car is property of the New York City Police Department through confiscation and is offered with a clear title and no guarantees or warranties."

The auctioneer scanned the crowd, picking out the people he knew had some interest in the car. Don nodded once when the man's gaze swept by him.

"You've done this before," Beale said.

Cragen shook his head. "I've had a lot of practice at discretion. To tell the truth, Andrew—I'm shaking like a leaf."

"Buck up, Don. Think about how a thing of beauty is a joy forever, especially one with 265 English horses under its bonnet."

The auctioneer finished his scrutiny of the crowd.

"Let's start the bidding at five thousand. Do I hear five? Five?"

Travis Price held up his card: 096

"I have five, five—who'll make it ten?"

One of the sunglasses-wearing collectors waved his card: 105

"I have ten, ten thousand. Can I hear fifteen, fifteen?"

He pointed at Price. "I have fifteen. Who'll go—"

Marchietti nodded once.

"I have twenty, twenty thousand. Give me twenty-five—"

Perlman flapped his sign at the auctioneer: 21

"That's the age of the girl Perlman hopes to impress."

Don stifled a chuckle at Beale's comment.

_Don't get distracted… remember your strategy… see who's bidding before jumping in…._

"The bid is now twenty-five. Now, thirty, thirty…."

Price held up his card and Marchietti nodded again. The auctioneer pointed an index finger at the hip-hop artist.

"I have thirty. Increments of five—are you at thirty-five?"

Price grinned. "Ain't letting no old fuck outbid Street-T."

Marchietti frowned, causing Cragen to wonder about Street-T's life expectancy. A few of the dealers standing near Price and his entourage backed away from them.

The auctioneer turned to the two collectors, who quickly conferred then shook their heads. He then swept his gaze across the crowd.

Cragen nodded.

"I have forty, forty thousand. Do I hear forty-five?"

Perlman waved his card.

"Forty-five. Now, fifty? Fifty?"

Marchietti nodded and Price jerked his head up, jutting his chin at the retired 'garbage entrepreneur.'

"Make that sixty!" he shouted.

The auctioneer turned to face Cragen.

"Sixty, I have sixty."

_Sixty to me… already?_

Cragen swallowed hard before nodding.

"Sixty-five, I have sixty-five. Do I hear seventy?"

Perlman leaned back on his heels and gasped twice before waving his card again.

"Seventy, I have seventy. Now, who'll make it seventy-five?"

Marchietti then pursed his lips. His gaze shifted from the Jaguar to the hip-hop artist and his eyes narrowed. Travis Price stared back with all the insolence of a celebrity used to the total adoration of his fans and sycophants.

"Street-T just mistook a rattlesnake for a garden hose," Beale said. "We'll be fishing him and his bodyguards out of the river before the week's over."

Don caught the auctioneer's attention with another nod.

"I have seventy-five, seventy-five. Do I hear eighty?"

Marchietti kept his attention on Price as he shook his head. Perlman tossed his card to the ground and slunk away towards the gate.

Price grinned as the two men left. "Seventy-six!" he said. "I ain't paying no eighty if I'm the last one left."

"I have seventy-six, that's seven-six. Do I hear eighty?"

Don looked over at his friend; Beale grinned back at him.

"You giving up like they did, Don?"

Don froze.

_Eighty thousand bucks… eighty thousand bucks—for a car built when I was twelve years old… eighty thousand… I am out of my freaking mind…._

To his right, Travis Price began to dance around his business manager.

"Street-T gets his ride, takin' it in stride…."

The arrhythmic couplet broke Don's fit of indecision.

_That's my car… I earned it in a warehouse in the Bronx…._

"No, I'm not," he announced to Beale, "I'm driving that Jaguar home."

In response to the auctioneer's impatient stare, Cragen nodded again.

"I have eighty, eight-zero."

"What the Goddamned fucking hell—?"

Price balled his fists and started toward the auctioneer's stand. His business manager grabbed his shirt and said something in his ear. Beale leaned close to Don.

"I'm betting he told Price to jump it once then give up. He knows what that E-type is worth and it's not eighty."

"It is to me," Don muttered.

"Do I hear eighty-five? Eight-five? Eight-three, eighty-three? How about eighty-two?"

Price pulled his arm away from his manager's grip and shouted, "It's mine at ninety. You fucks hear me? That fucking Jag is mine!"

The auctioneer pointed his gavel in Cragen's direction.

There are moments when the stars align with crystal clarity, when the planets in their orbits resolve the harmony of their spheres, and the light of the universe focuses its brilliance on one spot. At that point is power and wisdom and majesty and truth—or, at the very least, the will to do something completely unexpected.

Don Cragen held up his right fist and raised his index finger. He then turned to face Price and changed fingers.

Andrew Beale hissed in a breath. Price's eyes bugged out. His bodyguards tensed. Several people cheered. The auctioneer raised an eyebrow.

"I have ninety-one," he announced. "Ninety-one thousand dollars."

He then aimed the gavel at Price, who was still staring gap-mouthed at Cragen.

"And you, sir? Do I hear ninety-five?"

Price glared at the auctioneer, then the crowd, then his business manager, who was frantically whispering in his ear.

"Fuck this!" Price shouted. "Damn stupid way to buy a cheap-ass piece of British junk. Street-T's got dozens of rides back home; he don't need no E-type to get the bitches."

He spun around and stomped away with his entourage in tow.

"That's ninety-one thousand dollars—going once, twice, sold to Bidder Number...?

Don held up his bid card then listened to the gavel as it knocked down the sale. Beale slugged his friend hard on his shoulder.

"Good lord, Don—you got it."

_Yeah… I just blew almost a year's take-home pay… but I got Greg Lau's baby… every time I drive it, I'll think of him pinning me down on that counter, pistol-whipping me, breaking my wrist, hearing how I was going to die there in the dark… and how he is rotting away and I'm driving his car…._

"You got plans for the rest of the day?" Beale asked.

Cragen's gaze followed his XKE as it was driven off to make way for the next vehicle.

_Damn, that car is gorgeous…._

"Yes," he answered. "I'm taking a long drive in the country with a beautiful woman."

519 Fort Washington Avenue  
Residence of Aaron Fogel and Marguerite Geistner  
10 July

There was family everywhere—Mommy and Louisa in the kitchen arranging appetizer trays, Aunt Connie fussing with the candlesticks in the dining room, Great-Aunt Deborah putting out coasters in the parlor. _Mutti_ was in her studio working, _Vatti_ in his office ranging things with Daddy, and Nila was watching 'Dora the Explorer' in Grandma's sitting room.

_I gotta question and everyone is busy...._

The little girl stood in the kitchen, the center of the pre-party activity. She was dressed up in a new pink sundress, her hair carefully pressed and twisted into four braids with ribbons, and the stuffed giraffe under her arm had a matching pink bow tied around its neck. She had just made the rounds of her relatives again, but Aunt Connie sent her to talk to Mommy and Great-Aunt Deborah sent her to Mommy and Daddy sent her to talk to Mommy and Grandma before she went back to work sent her to talk to Mommy and Mommy said exactly what she'd said before....

"Go watch TV with Nila. Mommy's busy."

"But Mommy—"

"And don't get your dress mussed. We're taking pictures."

She took a deep breath and snorted it out.

_I'm Cara the bear and I'm grunting 'cause that's what bears do when they're not happy...._

Her mother ignored her. Louisa, _Mutti's_ housekeeper, winked at her, but then she turned away to help with another tray.

The little girl went to the front door and peered out the side window. The shadows of the trees in the park across the street and the number of people walking down Fort Washington from the subway station warned her that she didn't have much time.

_I can ask Mutti... it's her birfday party so she can give me permiss'n...._

Since she wasn't supposed to play on the elevator, she ran up the stairs. She tiptoed passed the third floor so her older sister wouldn't hear her and make her watch Dora.

The fifth floor of the townhouse was one open room with high windows and shutters. Shelves and cabinets filled the south wall since it didn't have windows. In the center of the room were _Mutti's_ easels, her stool, and a high padded bench where Cara sometimes sat to watch her great-grandmotherpaint. Two of the easels were covered with gauze fabric to protect the paintings on them.

Cara's great-grandmother stood before the third easel. She wore a peasant blouse in tie-dyed salmon over white capri pants and her white hair was pulled back in a knot held by a chopstick.

_Mutti's paints are put away so she's not busy...._

Cara called to her from the door.

"_Mutti_? I hafta ask you a question."

The woman held up her right hand, index finger pointing to the ceiling. Cara waited while she wrote something on the lower part of the stiff paper with a thick pencil then she covered the easel with more fabric.

"There," her great-grandmother said, "signed and finished. Now, come here and tell me what is so urgent to you."

_Mutti _sat down on the bench while Cara ran over to her.

"Can I invite Mr. Giraffe to your party? Can I?"

The old woman pointed to the stuffed giraffe that Cara held.

"But isn't he here already? I see a pink ribbon on his neck. He looks dressed for a party to me."

Cara frowned at her great-grandmother.

_I keep explaining but nobody listens to me...._

"This is the giraffe that Mr. Giraffe gave me. Mr. Giraffe is a different giraffe and he's not here. That's why I have to invite him to your birfday party."

The half-smile on _Mutti's_ face warned Cara that she didn't understand, but that didn't matter. What mattered was what _Mutti_ said next.

"Of course, Cara. You can invite as many giraffes as you want."

Cara hugged the stuffed giraffe and bounced up and down.

"Thank you, _Mutti!_ I'm gonna go invite him right now!"

She tore down all four flights of stairs and went straight for the front door.

_I'm not allowed out by myself, but Mutti said I could invite Mr. Giraffe and he's outside so it's okay if I go outside this time…._

Out on the stoop, Cara looked at all the people on the sidewalk, hoping she hadn't missed him.

_There's the short woman in the green jacket and blue hair... she always goes by first...._

She skipped down the stairs and stood on the bottom one to wait for her friend. People in suits and people in jeans walked passed her. Some held cell phones to their ears. Others just stared straight ahead like they were in a race to get home first before everybody else. Finally, she spotted him, a tall man in a black suit with a thin red tie, coming out of the 181st Street station. She faced him with the giraffe he had given her clasped in both arms and her bestest bear snarl on her face.

_Mr. Giraffe's gonna see me and he'll stop and he'll smile real big and he'll swing his head around and butt me on my noggin and I'll giggle because that's what bears do when giraffes greet them... then I'll invite him to Mutti's party and everyone can meet him and then they'll understand why he's a different giraffe and he can drink beer with Daddy and Grandma and Aunt Connie 'cause they're all police and he can eat Mommy's salad and maybe I'll let Nila play with him...._

She bounced on her toes as he got closer, the anticipation of seeing her friend too big to hold still inside her. He got closer and closer and closer and just when she thought he wasn't going to stop, he dug his toes into the sidewalk and stopped so fast the man behind him almost smacked right into him.

For a long moment, Mr. Giraffe stared down at her, his eyes big behind his black glasses.

"Cara? Cara the Bear?"

She bounced and grinned.

"Mr. Giraffe! You almost didn't see me."

Her friend squatted on his heels, making a very ungiraffe-like grunt as he did so.

"Cara, what are you doing out here by yourself? Where are your parents?"

She pointed at the front door of the townhouse.

"They're in there. I'm out here so I can invite you to _Mutti's _party!"

He tipped his chin all the way down to his tie and looked at her over his glasses.

" '_Mutti'_? Is your grandmother German?"

Cara shook her head hard.

"She's my great-grandma and she's Swiss and it's her birfday and I want you to come to her party with me."

Mr. Giraffe rocked back on his heels and blinked at her.

"Does your _Mutti_ paint?"

Cara bobbed her head up and down.

"She paints buildings and mountains and castles and some of them are scary and some aren't. She's painting the place where my grandma works, but that's a secret."

Mr. Giraffe peered at her so hard she wondered if he would yell at her for telling _Mutti's_ secret.

"You have a relative who works for the NYPD?"

Cara bobbed her head up and down.

"My daddy's a police officer and my grandma's a detective and my aunt's a sergeant and—"

He cut off her stream of words with a pat on her shoulder.

"In that case, I would be honored to accept your invitation to your great-grandmother's birthday party."

When her friend finished standing up, there was a great big grin on his face.

_Wow—Mr. Giraffe has a lot of big teeth...._

"Oh," he said, "I almost forgot."

Mr. Giraffe bent over and rested his head briefly on hers. She giggled as he took her hand.

"Lead the way, Cara the Bear," he said to her. "This is going to be a party to remember."

Sidewalk  
West 183rd Street  
11 July

John strolled down his street toward his apartment building. The lateness of the hour had thinned the traffic and quieted the city noises to the point that he could hear the _tap_ of the heels of the woman beside him when they struck the concrete just after her toes.

_Yes, it definitely was a party to remember... good conversation, good food and drink... lots of useful dirt on Otten... and...._

The woman was in her late fifties, close to his own age, the few inches she lacked of his height made up by her shoes and the pride in her carriage as she walked with him.

"You're right," John replied to her previous comment. "Nothing can come of a relationship founded on lies."

The woman nodded in agreement.

"It's a good thing we both came clean," she replied. "Otherwise, you'd still think I was an accountant and I'd still think you were a music critic."

He grinned.

"But I am. You should see my vinyl."

She grinned back at him.

"And you should see my Public Accountant and Fraud Examiner certifications."

She held his gaze for a second, a move calculated to inform him that she fully intended to show him her qualifications at the next suitable opportunity.

_Amazing... I fib about being a detective for my one and only try at speed-dating and, over a year later, I find out that a woman who was paired with me was telling the same fib... Sergeant Connie Walker of the NYPD's Special Frauds Unit, pretending to be a CPA to avoid conversations about criminals and crime...._

Connie's next words showed that her thoughts were following the same thread.

"If I'd known you were on the job, I wouldn't have written you off as boring."

John stopped in his tracks.

"Boring? Me?"

"No, not you. Critics in general. Those who can't do, criticize. I prefer doers to talkers."

He looked her over again, admiring her tall, slim figure, the even salt-and-cinnamon color of her hair, her straight nose, and her piercing brown eyes.

_I could do that...._

A few yards more and he slowed to a stop.

"This is it—the humble Munch abode. You've parked near here?"

Connie pointed to a copper-red Mazda MX-5 parked two doors further up.

"My baby. She's almost as much fun as my grandkids and a lot easier to handle."

_Sports car? Grandkids? I certainly latched onto the surprising member of the Otten tribe… now, to convert this walk into an elevator ride, a glass of wine, some good music… she appreciates forthrightness and humor… I'm good with both…._

"Want me to bring my music collection down for you?" he asked. "I can spread it out under the streetlight here and we can discuss which musical styles you prefer."

He stepped closer to her and peered at her over his lenses.

"Of course, my collection is massive and very hard to handle. You'll have more fun if you come up to enjoy it."

Connie held his gaze so long he thought he'd made the sale. Then, she looked away from him. He caught a glimpse of a smile and wondered if he'd overplayed his hand.

"I think," she said, "I'll enjoy it more if I let you stew in your own juices for a date or two. Besides, I'm working a double tomorrow."

_Damn… and good... it's not an outright brush-off…._

"I'm day shift for tomorrow," he replied. "Want to meet for dinner?"

She hummed softly while she considered his offer.

"Not tomorrow. I'm in the midst of a major phony securities case; getting today off was a hassle. Maybe on the fifteenth? I switch to days then."

_The fifteenth? That's four days from now. I don't want to wait that long… maybe she'll change her mind if I look disappointed…._

He pouched his mouth into an exaggerated pout and slumped his shoulders.

_According to Calvin and Hobbes, the correct name for this is Bambi Eyes… add the right amount of humor and women eat it up…._

He held the expression until she started to edge away then he grinned to tell her that he knew it was a cheap ploy.

"I'm not putting you off," Connie said. "It's the way I am. Work comes first, especially when I've got months invested in a case that's about to break."

"Oh—kay."

He followed the word with a deep sigh before saying, "I'll try to keep myself sane until the fifteenth. Want to set the place and time now? It will give me something to live for."

The single low snort warned that she had him pegged.

_But I don't mind... so long as I get her phone number with that restaurant and time...._

"How about Vegetarian Dim Sum at 1:30? I prefer my main meal then."

Connie took her shield case from her purse and pulled out a business card.

"This has my cell on it. If you get tied up, let me know and we will figure something out."

_'We'... I like the sound of that...._

He countered with his own card.

"Fine," he said. Dim Sum on the fifteenth. If I'm not there, you can blame the thousands of perverts infesting Manhattan."

Connie read his card over before placing it into her purse.

"I'm sure you and Judith are making a dent in their numbers," Connie said "Speaking of Judith, I can't believe she never mentioned you. I'll have to talk to her about that."

The mental image of tall, slender Connie Walker chewing out her decidedly dumpling-shaped sister-in-law prompted another happy grin from John.

_I can't wait to talk to Otten, either...._


	23. Hurricane: part six

A/N: some foul language. I also give Munch some Romanian relatives.

Manhattan Homicide Squadroom  
10 July

Ed sat at his desk with the phone tips from COP SHOT stacked in front of him. Joe, in a fit of unexpected altruism, had helped work the tip line all night before dropping the results on Ed's desk and heading to the crib to crash.

_Don't know if Joe is that big on COP SHOT or if he's ducking Judith... the way he acted when she called to say 'Yes,' was more like second thoughts than thrilled...._

"Excuse me? Are you the detective trying to find Jason Meade?"

The interrupter was male, mid-thirties, sandy-haired thinning at the top, blue eyes deep-set and bleary, a bit thick through the middle....

_... judging by his suit and accent, his wife buys his clothes at an outlet store somewhere in the Midwest..._

_..._and he was staring the photo of Jason that leaned against Ed's lamp as though it were manna in the wilderness.

_He must be Meade's father... damn...._

Ed quickly glanced at the lieutenant's office where Van Buren was on the phone.

_No way I can dump him on her... okay, be charming, say nothing, and get him the hell out of here...._

Ed slid the stack of phone tips towards Fontana's desk, using the motion to knock over the photo of Jason Meade taken from the security tape. He then rose to his feet and held out his hand.

"Detective Green," he said before pausing for a return introduction.

The man held his own hand out without taking his attention from the photo.

"Tom Meade and that is my son's picture. Are you working his case?"

"Not exactly. Why don't you have a seat?"

Ed gestured to the chair by his desk. Meade eased himself into the wooden chair while Ed grabbed his mug and waved it at Ana Cordova while pointing at Mr. Meade. When she nodded in reply, he retook his own seat.

"We're not working on your son's disappearance, Mr. Meade, but his fingerprints were found at the scene of the crime we are investigating."

Ana brought over a foam cup filled with black coffee. Meade took no heed of it; Ed smiled his thanks.

_If he doesn't drink it, I will...._

"A freckled-faced boy," he continued, "approximately the age your son would be shows up on the security tape before the crime was committed. It's that boy we're looking for; we want to ask him some questions."

Meade lifted his gaze from the photo to Green's face. Ed noted a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Jack Steckles from the Creve Coeur police said someone from the Twenty-seventh Precinct in New York had sent for info about our little guy."

Ed's throat tightened.

_Don't... don't call him that... I can't think about the little kid snatched from your family... I need him to be the shooter on the tape... a cold-blooded hit man... don't make me think about your little boy and what happened to him...._

"We did," he replied, keeping his tone friendly but professional, "because of the fingerprints, but we don't know when they were left there. Your son could have been at that place weeks earlier, long before our crime took place."

Ed leaned forward and tried for a "You can trust me" smile.

_I'd be more convincing if I weren't so tired...._

"I wish I could discuss things further with you, but I can't; it's departmental policy. If there is anything else I can do...."

"Don't."

The single syllable, said so quietly that Cordova one desk over didn't hear it, halted Ed's recital of official policy.

"I'm in sales," Meade said. "I know a brush-off when I hear one."

He reached over to take the photo of his son from Ed's desk.

"It's been almost seven years since I turned around in that damn food court and didn't see Jason with his brother Bryan. I've had plenty of time to learn what happens to kids who get abducted and I know there's no chance of getting Jason back—at least, not the Jason who was our little boy. The best Jenny and I can hope for is a messed up preteen with vague memories of us. The worst...."

Meade swallowed hard.

"I bet I don't have to tell you what the worst would be."

_No, you don't... I see it every day...._

Ed eyed Meade wearily and wondered why anyone would travel so far just to borrow trouble for himself.

"Mr. Meade, why are you here?"

Meade straightened in his chair as he met Ed's weary stare.

"My wife is certain you will find Jason here. No matter what happened, he's our son and I want to be here for him."

Ed noted the slight twitch in Meade's jaw, a sign of the sick fear underlying his hope. At the next desk, Ana was busy with her e-mail; the other detectives were intent on their own work. There was no one to take this problem off his hands.

_Hate to admit it, but he's right... whatever Jason is now, he was this guy's little boy... that's how this guy remembers him... what Meade is showing me is love... and I get to kill it for him...._

He leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Meade's eyes, wishing that he didn't have to blink hard to see him clearly.

"Do me a favor and go home. Don't be alone in a hotel room when we break this case."

The color drained from Meade's face. When he opened his mouth to protest, Ed held up a hand to silence him.

"When this is over, I'll call you. I'll tell you the truth."

_Don't make me say more... just believe me and go home...._

"What you're saying is—"

"What I'm saying is go home. Hug Bryan. Hug your wife. Hug any other kids you have."

_Don't make me tell you about Fred and Tammy... Weston and Bashir... about Anacasis and Brandon... how you'll have to visit your son through steel bars and how the only way he'll ever come home is in a box...._

Meade's gaze met Ed's then it slid away to stare at the photo in his hands.

"You're telling me is that there's no hope?"

Ed held stock still.

"I can't comment on active cases," he replied, taking refuge in official double-speak.

Meade closed his eyes and drew in a few ragged breaths then he used the edge of the desk to push himself to his feet.

"Thank you, Detective. Your honesty means a lot. There's been so much false hope...."

He let the sentence trail off.

"I will call you," Ed replied, his voice a husky whisper. "I promise."

Meade's lips parted as though he had more to say, but he instead turned and headed for the squadroom door. Ed planted his elbows and sagged forward, his attention focused on the photo Meade had returned to his desk, on the smiling little kid riding his Big Wheels in the safety of his family's driveway.

_I saw the tape of you killing four people... you're a cop killer—I can't afford to start caring about you... I can't.... _

"Ed? You okay?"

Van Buren's voice and her light touch on his shoulder reminded him that she was watching both him and Joe closely for signs of stress.

_Signs like staring aimlessly at stuff...._

Ed sucked in a deep breath of air.

"Yeah, Lieu," he said as he raised his head. "I'm fine. No problem."

She scowled at him.

"Make sure you stay that way. Who was that man you were talking with?"

"A relative of a victim from a cold case," Ed said, choosing his words very carefully. "He came by to remind me that it's still unsolved. I got rid of him without hurting his feelings."

"Good. Let me know if you find anything in those tips from COP SHOT."

Van Buren walked away, leaving him to the stack of message sheets. Ed made a show of reading the topmost tip. As soon as the lieutenant was out of sight, he grabbed the photo of Jason from the security tape from Joe's desk and leaned it against his own lamp. The picture of the younger Jason he tossed face-down on his partner's desk.

_I need this to stay black and white... it's too easy to get lost in the grays...._

He then set to work on the stack of tips. Those that were obviously phoned in by crazies, like "Mayor Bloomberg is controlling my mind through his tie color and pattern...," he set aside. Those that were from the clueless, such as "There was three of them; it was a gang initiation...," went on the same pile. That left the possibles. If they had a location, Ed checked it against the city databases. Those with valid addresses and some likelihood of being tied to Dominick Anacacis, he took into Van Buren's office for further vetting.

"The Crib"  
27th Precinct  
10 July

_Damn... I shouldn't have taken the Lieu's bet... Joe really did fall asleep in his suit...._

Fontana was on his back, his tie loosened and his Gucci loafers still on his feet. Salt-and-pepper stubble covered his chin and cheeks and his carefully brushed hair had been pressed flat. Ed leaned over to shake him awake and Joe's eyes opened.

"What? You got something?" he said as he began to lever himself to a sitting position.

"Yeah. Think you can go without shaving for a few hours? Van Buren okayed us checking out a tip, but you'll get made if you don't look homeless or derelict."

Joe finished sitting up then rubbed the back of his neck.

"I feel like both right now. What do you have?"

Ed showed him the slip. "Address is near Gravesend in Brooklyn. The caller said that we'd find Jason there until Monday because Double-Dom moves a lot."

Joe glanced at the paper. "I didn't take that one, but it feels right. Let me at the trunk of my car. I think I left some gym clothes there."

Two hours later, Ed was in Brooklyn, sitting behind the wheel of a 1979 Chevy Nova, primer red where it wasn't rust, one of the cars that Manhattan Narcotics keep for undercover work. He sat low in the seat, a gray hooded shirt over a grimy white undershirt that hid his weapon and shield. A toothpick clenched between his teeth and a Detroit Redwings ball cap completed his ensemble.

The object of his interest, a wooden two-story house with peeling white paint, was across West Eighth Street from his parking spot. The house showed no obvious signs of recent improvement or renovation, but all its windows were barred and closed—unusual considering the neighboring buildings had their windows open to catch any stray summer breeze.

_There must be an A/C unit somewhere... we should check ConEd for utility bills...._

Two large men were on the front stoop, both wearing plain blue T-shirts. One stood by the large oak front door, the other paced the sidewalk as he eyed the pedestrians who passed by. Twice his gaze rested on the rusty Nova; Green ignored him both times. The second time, the guard took a step towards the car, but an old white guy in grimy sweats and a moth-eaten knit cap bumped his shopping cart into him, drawing his attention from the detective and earning the old guy a hard shove for his unsteadiness.

Ed waited another ten minutes after the assault was committed before looking at his watch. He then drove south on W. Eighth then slowly north on W. Ninth until he spotted the old guy shambling down that street behind his cart..

_White and green Truman Junior College sweat shirt, ratty as hell... gray sweatpants... black gym shoes like my dad used to wear... I can't believe Joe actually wears that stuff to work out.... _

Ed pulled over just long enough for the old guy to abandon his cart and get in before high-tailing it for I-278. In the passenger seat, Fontana pulled off the knit cap then reached under his shirt to yank off the wire he has wearing.

"I hate these things," he griped. "The adhesive itches."

"You rather be seen with your notepad taking notes?"

Joe snorted at the thought. "The rear door of that house is as solid as the front one, but there's only one guy watching it. All the windows have security bars, even the second floor, so we don't have to worry about anyone bolting except through the rear door."

"Does the lot back onto the train tracks?"

"Yeah, and the fencing is intact along the tracks. We'll never get over it without being noticed, but..."

He held up a finger to emphasize the coming info.

"...there's a loose panel behind the Dumpster by the glass shop next door. I figure that's their escape route.

"Blocking their escape is ESU's problem, not ours. You see any sign of Meade?"

"I think I saw a blond head in an upstairs window when I was rooting through that Dumpster—just a glimpse so I can't say for sure."

Ed nodded then said, "Searching the trash for recyclables improved your smell."

Joe dropped his head to sniff his clothing.

"This has been in my gym bag for over a week. You wanted derelict; I delivered."

"You sure did. You really work out in that getup?"

Fontana reared back with a snort of indignation.

"Of course. I don't go to the gym to impress people; I go there to stay fit enough to bail you out if I have to. You want me to call Van Buren and tell her we're on our way?"

Ed nodded. "She said she'd get the ball rolling with ESU for a raid. All we have to do is pick a time."

Fontana stared out the windshield for a few moments as he thought.

"These guys expect a night raid, whether from us or from their competition. Tomorrow's Sunday. Let's shoot for early morning, maybe catch them at breakfast. Okay with you?"

Ed nodded again.

_Bust in, grab Jason, haul in Anacacis and hand him over to Narcotics... sounds good to me...._

SVU Squadroom  
11 July

Steven Jay Barnett had thought he would go free when his DNA didn't match any from the Dykeman rapes.

"Possession of stolen goods, accessory before and after the fact to rape and murder," Sofarelli told him as he locked the door of the holding tank. "Come up with a better story than 'my imaginary roommate owns that shit' and I'm sure the D.A. will talk. If not, see you in court."

Couch went home after his shift with the intent of sleeping in then spending Saturday with his wife. Judith headed for her parents' townhouse in Washington Heights; she intended to get a few hours' sleep then spend the day finishing party preparations for her mother's eighty-third birthday that night. Barnett went to Central Booking.

Perhaps it was the men to whom he was shackled when he left the precinct house, especially the combative drunk who pissed himself in the holding tank. Maybe it was the four-hour trip across Manhattan, most it spent waiting for buses from other precincts to upload their cargo. It could have been the small holding cell, ten feet by ten with no furniture or facilities other than a drain in the center of its tile floor or maybe it was the breakfast of baloney on white bread served with a paper cup of tepid Kool-ade. Perhaps the camaraderie of his fellow cell mates, all twelve of them larger, darker, and more profane than he was, swayed him—whatever it was, by 4:17 the next afternoon, when Barnett was led up to the window to meet his public defender, he was more than ready to avoid arraignment by giving up the source of the stolen goods, one Calvin Washburn Smalls: 6' 0", 185 pounds, white, brown hair and eyes, 29 years of age.

His decision ruined Casey Novak's plans for Saturday night. First off, she had to get a warrant to arrest Smalls and search his apartment.

_No judge wants to be part of a daisy chain of erroneous arrests. Thankfully, Judge Terhune's grand-daughter lives on Post Avenue, only a couple blocks up from Dykeman Street; he signed almost without reading...._

Next she called Don Cragen to apprise him of the developments in the case.

_When I called Don's cell phone, I got a bunch of wind noise that almost drowned out his voice...._

She had ignored his sharp "What?" of greeting.

"Don, it's Casey," she had told him. "Otten and Sofarelli are bringing in a suspect for the Dykeman rapes and the Carpenter murder. You available to observe?"

"_I don't think so. It's my day off and I'm in Pennsylvania."_

Casey pulled the phone from her ear to stare at it. It was not just wind noise; there also was a woman giggling in the background. She put the phone back in time to hear Cragen finish his answer.

"_...you handle it and let me know what happens. I'll be in tomorrow."_

The moment he hung up, she snapped her phone shut and shoved it into her briefcase.

_Don off partying in Pennsylvania? Wow...._

When she arrive at the Manhattan SVU squadroom, the place was empty except for Elliot, who was playing a shoot 'em up game on his computer.

"Hey," she had called out. "Where is everyone?"

"John's working days this weekend," Stabler had replied after he paused his game. "Benson and Fin caught a child abuse case. Otten and Couch are bringing someone in for the Dykeman case."

Casey raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, I know," she said. "I got the warrant for them. What's with Liv and Fin working together? You and she split up?"

He examined at the top of his desk. "Don't ask."

Casey perched on the corner of his desk. "Elliot, what's going on here? Why is Cragen on a windswept cliff in Pennsylvania instead of giving a damn about current cases."

Elliot's tight grimace matched the anger in his narrowed eyes.

"Cap hasn't a clue what's going on here. Your boss told him he had a shot at promotion and he's been chasing it like a dog after a T-bone steak."

"My boss? You mean Beale? Why is he interested in Don making Deputy Inspector?"

Elliot shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me. All I know is I could set fire to his office and Cragen wouldn't notice. It's like...."

Otten poked her head through the open door.

"We got Smalls. He's not in a mood to cooperate, but he hasn't lawyered up. Who's observing?"

Casey glanced around the empty room before catching Elliot's gaze.

"Not me," he said. "Benson told me to cover the phones so I'm covering."

_Elliot willing to cover the phones? And when did Liv become Benson? Maybe I should check under the desks for pods... better yet, maybe I should call George Huang and see what he knows...._

She scurried from the squadroom to the security of the empty observation room. A problem setting up the video equipment ate thirty minutes then Otten made the decision to let Smalls stew for another half-hour. After Officer Taylor led him back from a toilet run, Judith and Couch began a series of questions about Smalls' background, educational history, entertainment preferences, customs and habits.

Casey watched all of this from the same wooden stool that she had brought Cragen to use during Sergeant Diane Wilkerson's interrogation.

_I want them to move faster, but they're waiting on the DNA report from Smalls' cheek swab—part of the search warrant I got from Judge Terhune... Smalls can stonewall all he wants but, the second it comes back a match, we got him...._

Casey made a new pot of coffee around 2 a.m. and drank a cup while perched on her stool. Couch took a break at 3:25 and drained the pot to fill his and Judith's mugs. He also made another pot, which Casey found undrinkable.

_Blech... tastes like he recycled the old grounds... _

She returned to the observation room and paced while listening to Smalls recite again the alibis he had given earlier. Judith and Couch compared his answers to his first set and to the time and locations of the rapes and the Carpenter murder.

_Several discrepancies this time—more than last time... I'll use every one of them in court if I need to... Smalls should have lawyered up when he had the chance...._

At 4:35 a.m., Judith, phone in-hand, joined her in the observation room. The older woman looked longingly at Casey's mug as she listened to a message.

"Smalls is a match," she announced with a grin, "to the last three victims, including Carpenter. They'll run the earlier ones later. We're using it as leverage for a confession. Is there more coffee?"

"Don't tell Couch, but I pitched his and made fresh," Casey told her. "Want some?"

Judith headed for the hallway door. "The lab is faxing over the results; I'll bring the pot back with me."

Another forty-six minutes after hearing the DNA results, Calvin Smalls yawned twice then admitted to all of the break-ins, the rapes, and the murder of Alice Carpenter. Couch handed him a legal pad and pen so he could begin the laborious process of writing his statement out in longhand. Casey slid from the stool and stretched until her bones popped.

_That's it... good job, guys... I'm heading home to bed...it's been a long, long night...._

SVU Squadroom  
11 July

By 7:45 a.m., Smalls was on his way to Central Booking. Couch and Judith were at their desks, wrapping up the case paperwork and accepting the congratulations of Howie's shift with big smiles and yawns. John Munch observed them from the coffee machine while he made his morning tea.

_Couch doesn't look too tired—all that youth and exercise pays off, but Otten is dragging... all-nighters get harder every decade and she has seen more than her share of them... deep sighs, bloodshot eyes, shoulders slumped down to her waist... I've had a good night's sleep, a hearty breakfast, and a boatload of info to batter down her defenses... forget cursing in German—I'll have her in tears inside of ten minutes...._

He waited until after the shift meeting to make his move.

_It's perfect... Couch took some paperwork downstairs so there will be no interference from our future sergeant... as soon as Sue finishes chatting with Otten, I'll move in for the kill...._

From his desk, he listened in to their conversation.

"I have two aunts, an uncle, and three cousins who came all the way from Switzerland," Otten was saying, "and they expected me to be at my parents' house last night. I'd rather head home, but eating breakfast with them will make my life easier."

"I know how that goes," Sue replied. "I missed my sister's college graduation thanks to a case. You'd think my mom would understand, but no—she still goes on and on about it. Let me know if I can help you get out of here sooner."

The second Sue went back to her desk, John slid into the chair next to Otten's cactus garden.

"So," he said, "you missed your mother's party. That's a real shame."

"Go away, Munch. I'm busy."

He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back, his feet stretched before him.

"Myself, I spent last night enjoying the company of three beautiful, intelligent women."

Otten kept her attention on her computer screen as she filled out another form. John leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"Don't you believe me?"

"Watching the Lifetime channel," she told him, "does not count as a date."

He placed his right hand over his heart, aping the posture of a deeply insulted man.

"Your doubt wounds me. Anyway, who said I was home? I was at the most exclusive event in the city. Famous people were in attendance, Otten—people even you've heard of."

He dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Cara Otten, Marguerite Geistner, and Connie Walker. The four of us had a wonderful time."

The blood drained from Otten's face and she turned toward him so fast, he thought her neck would snap.

"What?"

_That's my Otten... a mind like a steel sieve...._

"Not what—where," he replied. "519 Fort Washington Avenue—ring any bells? I received a personal invitation from your youngest grand-daughter. She and the stuffed giraffe I gave her looked so cute in pink."

A wave of revulsion distorted Otten's face.

"You're...?"

"Yeah," he said, "I'm the not-so-imaginary Mister Giraffe. I drank beer and ate leaves with your relatives then Cara gave me the townhouse tour."

He leaned even closer. "Your rooms are nice—real nice. No wonder you stay there so often."

The revulsion turned to horror as Otten snarled at him. "You're kidding. You weren't in my—"

John peered at her over his lenses. "You have a blue quilt on your bed that looks hand-sewn. Cara offered to let me bounce on it, but I'm a bit tall for that."

Otten gaped at him, her eyes blood-shot and bleary.

"Bounce? On my bed?"

_This is great...._

"Yes, bounce on your bed. Ride in your elevator. Eat Louisa's delicious canapés."

He noted that her teeth had clenched and the color was rapidly returning to her cheeks.

_From shock to anger in less than five seconds...._

"You had no right to be there."

_This is more than great...._

"Yes, I did. Your grand-daughter invited me. Your mother welcomed me. Your sister-in-law is having lunch with me. Your father asked me back to play chess with him."

John grinned until his jaw ached.

"Hate to tell you this, Otten, but your family likes me. They think I'm a great guy."

_They really do...._

John thought about the Fogels, the Geistners, and the Ottens, the little kids, the famous artist and her husband the historian, and all the cops.

_... they didn't treat me like a stranger or a guest... they treated me like family... nothing like the way Otten treats me...._

She stared at him for a long time then she shrugged and shook her head.

"So you snowed a four-year-old—good for you. As for the rest of my family—if they think you're great, then that's their problem, not mine."

She turned back to her computer and began to enter the rest of the arrest data. The set of her spine told him she considered the conversation over.

_Not so fast, Otten... I'm not going for a draw on this one—I want the win...._

John quickly ran through the past evening, trying to find something that would incite and inflame. After the kids had fallen asleep and their parents had laid them down on Otten's bed, he had joined the adults on the patio to enjoy the balmy summer night. Marguerite Geistner and her siblings, each of them over eighty years old, sat together and reminisced about growing up in Basel. Marguerite was the only one fluent in English, so their conversation was in German with occasional translations for John and the other family members visiting together outside.

_Four happy old people without a care in the world... nothing like how I remember my aunts and uncles... Otten's touchy about her family, so let's try that tack...._

"It was fascinating," John told her, "to listen to your mother and her brother and sisters talk about growing up in Switzerland. Talk about a wonderful life."

"Wonderful?"

Otten slowly spun in her chair to face him. She blinked a few times in disbelief.

"I've heard their stories many times. Life during the war wasn't easy—"

"Bullshit, Otten. It was safe, peaceful, damn near idyllic."

Otten scowled at him. "No, it wasn't. You don't know anything about—"

He stabbed a finger at her face as he interrupted her.

"No, you don't know anything. I looked it up—the Ottens came to New York in the early 1700s from the Dutch West Indies, the Fogels from Bavaria in the 1820s. Between them living here and your mother's family living the Heidi life in the Alps—"

"Basel is not in the Alps."

John glared at her over his lenses.

"I don't give a shit where Basel is, Otten. All I care about is that your entire family missed all the fun."

She stifled a yawn. "You think life in Basel during the war was fun?"

He held up his left hand, palm up.

"Let's compare the two. Switzerland: neutral, not invaded, no 'Final Solution'."

He held up his right hand. "Romania: one of the Axis powers, restriction of rights, loss of personal possession and homes, ghettos, cattle cars, concentration camps, tattoos, forced labor, Zyklon B showers, mass graves."

With each phrase, he lowered his right hand until it was an arm's length from his left hand. He then regarded his uppermost hand with faked surprise.

"Well, Otten—looks like you're right. Life in Basel really was hell."

She rolled her eyes skyward then slid forward in her chair. John glanced around the room. Couch had returned, but he was chatting with Amelia and Dan by the coffee machine. None of the other detectives or staff were paying Otten and him any attention.

_Good... I don't need anyone riding to her rescue... of course, they're missing some truly monumental stupidity...._

Otten stifled another yawn. "I didn't say things weren't bad elsewhere—"

"'Weren't bad?," John repeated, his voice tightening around the words. "'Bad' doesn't describe four hundred and twenty thousand murdered Romanian Jews. 'Bad' doesn't describe what happened to my father's cousins, Pal and Samuel Freund. They were forcibly conscripted into the Hungarian Army for the sole purpose of scouting for land mines. Do you really think 'bad' describes them being blown to bits?"

He slid his own chair forward until his knees were touching hers. She flinched, but held her ground.

"How about what happened to Katalin Reismann, my father's aunt? She was dragged from her house in Oradea with her husband and sons. They were shoved into a cattle car with her parents, and her sister and her family, and two hundred other Jews, all of them shipped off like garbage for disposal."

He leaned right into her face, nose to nose, snarl to snarl.

"Frida and Jakab Munczer, Anna, Samuel, Erzsabet, Zoli, and Jozsef Kolliner, Daniel, Aron, and Miklos Reismann—my father's relatives, all died in Auschwitz. Aunt Katalin was the only one to survive. She lived near us in Pikesville, but I never saw her in short sleeves, not even on a warm summer night. She didn't like people seeing the 'A25481' tattooed on her left arm."

He paused to draw attention to his next words.

"Tell me—does 'bad' describe having your children ripped from your arms and gassed? Does forced labor, rape, starvation, freezing cold, complete and utter hopelessness followed by death compare to anything your family ever endured?"

Otten's lips parted to answer him.

_Like I'm going to give you a chance to justify yourself... no, I'm going to change tactics and watch you struggle to catch up...._

He raised an eyebrow and smiled at her.

"Personally," he said, "I think adopting African-American kids was sheer brilliance on your part. When the U.S. completes its transformation into a fascist state, the brownshirts will ignore your family because you don't look like Jews."

His smile broadened.

"If a squad of them had crashed the party last night, they'd have hauled me away along with your parents and everyone else, but your kids and grandkids? They'd be safe—completely ignored."

It took a few moments—time John ascribed to the all-nighter and innate stupidity—before Otten puzzled out the message in his rant.

"That's not true," she said, her voice quavering with rage. "You would rat us out."

For an instant, he was young again, a child listening to Great-Aunt Katalin tell her stories, only this time it was Cara screaming in terror as she was ripped from her mother's arms.

_You bitch—you think I'd do that to her?_

He jumped to his feet, a move Otten followed. She raised her fist chest-high and drew it back. He matched that move, ready to block and counter her blow. Sue shouted something behind him, but all John heard was Otten growling before him.

Something grabbed his left arm and spun John around. He used the momentum to strike hard, enjoying the feel of flesh giving under his fist. The body doubled over his arm as a flash of orange hair streaked past his face.

_Howie?_

He stumbled back from Brewster, who was bent over, his arms folded over his stomach, gasping for air. Sue Lynde dashed between her partner and John.

"Munch, what the hell?"

He spun away from her.

_Where the fuck did Otten go?_

She stood by her desk, stock-still and staring at Couch, who held both hands cupped over his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

_Otten slugged Couch?_

He did not have time to grasp that idea before a commanding voice sounded from the hall door.

"What the fuck is going on in here?"

_Oh, shit... it's Cragen...._

_A/N: My apologies, but I'm about to do something nasty to you readers. Although I won't ignore them completely, what happens to Munch and Otten will be told in the story __The Defiant Ones.__ Hurricane: part six continues this story._


	24. Hurricane: part seven

A/N: although I strive for verisimilitude, this story does not depict the actual practices and procedures of the NYPD—in other words, this is fiction. Police officials, officers, detectives, and members of ESU teams can and do act differently than the ones depicted herein, as does just about everyone else in Real Life.

Sixty-first Precinct  
Brooklyn, NY  
11 July

Ninety minutes before the time designated for the raid, the planning meeting began. Lt. Gerard Sears of the ESU entry team, Lt. Van Buren, Jaliska Betts, the sergeant in charge of the patrol officers involved, and Detectives Fontana and Green were gathered in one of the Six-One's conference rooms. Coffee steamed in foam cups by each participant as they reviewed the plan for apprehending the occupants.

Sears wore the black uniform of the Emergency Services Unit, Betts a dark blue uniform shirt with twenty years' worth of hash marks on her sleeve. Van Buren and Green had dressed down for the raid, she in black slacks and a dark blue blouse, Green in dark gray slacks and a black pullover. Only Fontana opted for full business formal, but he had chosen a dark brown suit and a somber tie.

_Serious threads for serious work.... _

As primary on the case, Ed led the session, but Sears took over for the tactical planning. A compact man whose shaved head gleamed under the fluorescent lights, Sears ran through the deployment plan, illustrating each stage with a laser pointer on photos and diagrams displayed on a screen at the front of the room.

All proceeded normally until Sears brought up the photo of Jason Meade taken from the security tape, the one used in all the COPSHOT fliers.

"In order to protect this young man, all ESU personnel will hold their fire for anyone remotely resembling him. This means there may be unneutralized subjects left after we sweep each floor. Assume any civilians you see are armed and deadly with the exception of Meade."

Ed glanced at Van Buren, who pursed her lips and nodded.

_Damn... but we have to tell them... just in case...._

He stood up, a motion that drew attention from Sears to him.

"You should know," he said, "that we have security tape showing Jason Meade shooting Detectives Tierney and White, and Misters Weston and Bashir. He is as dangerous as any one else in that house."

He saw Van Buren glance around the table to judge their reactions. Next to her, Fontana raised an eyebrow as though daring them to protest the boy's innocence.

_They both look sick at the thought... I don't blame them... I'd rather be rescuing a kid, too...._

"Well," said Betts. The long pause after the syllable was the only audible sign that Green's news surprised anyone.

"Far as I'm concerned, this changes nothing," Fontana noted. "You guys refrain from shooting Meade and we take him home with us. Should be nothing but gravy."

Ed glared over Van Buren's head at his partner.

_Dynamic entries against drug dealers ain't my idea of gravy...._

When the meeting ended, Van Buren beckoned her detectives into a corner of the conference room.

"You two be careful in there," she told them. "As much as I want Meade brought in and this case closed...."

"We'll get him, ma'am, " Fontana assured her. "Don't you worry about that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get ready."

Ed held his expression neutral as his partner beat a retreat from his lieutenant's concern.

_Nothing against you, Lieu—but Joe's right... don't go acting like a mother hen... it reminds us of the risks and we don't need that right now..._.

Van Buren scowled at Joe's departure then she pinned Green with a finger pointed at his chest.

"We blow this," she said, "and the media will know Meade's the shooter. We won't get another chance like this one."

"Yes, ma'am," Ed replied. "Like Joe said—don't worry about it."

He caught up with his partner behind the precinct house where their Taurus was parked. The sun had risen while they were finalizing the raid and the sky was clear and cloudless. Joe had the trunk open and his suit jacket was laid neatly inside so he could shrug into his ballistic vest, a vest that was decidedly not NYPD-supplied.

_Neither is mine... first day Joe joined the squad, he went through our tactical gear... I had a standard-issue II vest that he _tsk-tsked_ at... couple weeks later, he handed me a bag... inside was a top-of-the-line IIIa vest that had to cost over a grand... I tried to turn it down—sure, I wanted it, but I was raised to be polite—and he told me, "Take the damn thing; it protects my hide as much as it does yours."_

Ed chuckled to himself at the memory.

_I took the vest then asked, if Joe was so concerned about my protection, was he going to start buying my condoms, too... "No, pal," he said, "you're on your own there." That when I decided, money or not, Joe might be okay...._

He joined his partner at the open truck to put on his vest. Next to him, Joe snapped two speedloader pouches onto his belt before checking his revolver.

"You shouldn't let Van Buren cluck over you," he told his partner. "It's not good for morale."

Ed smoothed a lumpy Velcro strap on his vest, the motion making a sizzle sound as the strap's fasteners locked.

"She didn't," he replied. "The lieu's worried Meade will slip past us and we'll lose him."

"That's not going to happen. He's ours and so is Anacacis. I can't wait to find out what that bastard did to Brandon. That confession should put him away for a very long time."

Ed looked up from his own weapons check. "That reminds me—Meade's father flew in yesterday. He wanted to be here when we find his son."

"That was stupid," Joe groused. "He'd be better off believing his kid might come home one day. Did Van Buren send him back to Missouri?"

Ed holstered his weapon. "No, I did. I also told him I'd call when this is over."

"You're a softy, Ed. Should have left that to the lieutenant; that's what she's paid for."

Joe then pulled his phone from his pocket and turned it off. "Judith left a message during the meeting. She closed the Dykeman case."

"Good for her. You call her back?"

"Naw. She'd just worry like Van Buren. I'll tell her about it afterwards."

Ed stared at his partner, who was standing easy on his feet, his hands at his sides, his eyes bright, a smile curving his lips.

_Like this really will be gravy... I feel like I'm shaking apart... I hate going through doors... must be Joe's years of experience—he's been there, done that too often to worry about it...._

"Good thing Judith's on the job," Ed replied, hoping the banter would calm his shakes. "A civilian girlfriend would never let you ignore her like that."

Joe's laugh echoed off the precinct's brick wall.

"Pal, don't I know it."

Ed rested a hand on the open trunk. "We need anything else? Radios?"

"We're using ESU radios. Sears said he'd have them ready for us when we got suited up. You ready?"

_Vest on body, weapon in holster, butterflies in stomach... all check...._

Ed pushed the truck lid shut.

"Yeah, guess I am."

The next few minutes saw the preparations for the raid completed. The entry team, kitted out in full armor and armed with M4 carbines, arrived and received their orders. Fontana and Green were outfitted with radios and shoulder mics tuned to the SOD frequency assigned to the operation. The raid's vehicle convoy then formed: the entry team's black truck, Fontana and Green's Taurus, several RMPs with the officers who would patrol the area and prevent locals from interfering, and Lt. Van Buren's car. Sergeant Betts and her team were already in position in the glass shop's parking lot.

_The plan is to drive everyone out through the back door and into the back yard... Betts and her team will get those that make it through the fence, Sears and ESU everyone left in the yard... Meade should be easy to separate out... if this goes well, all me and Joe need to do is ID him... damn, I hope it goes well...._

The convoy took off with full lights and sirens.

..._ silent approach starts three blocks from the house... Anacacis' men are watching the street so we won't surprise the house, but we can sneak up close to it... _

As Green turned the corner onto W. Eighth, Fontana released his seat belt and grabbed his weapon.

_Joe's going with the main entry team—they'll sweep the first floor... that's the only reason I'm driving—so he can get out the passenger side and save a second or two...._

Three doors from the corner, the same two men were guarding the house. The one on the porch bolted through the front door, leaving it open behind him. The man who had shoved Fontana ran from the sidewalk to the south corner of the house.

_Heading for the fence and safety... he's in for a surprise...._

As the first four members of the entry team exited the truck's rear, Fontana turned to his partner and nodded once before joining them. His low crouch kept him protected by the bulk and body armor of the ESU team as the five of them dashed up the stairs and through the open door.

Green slammed the shift lever into "Park" and followed him out. The three-man team he joined ran up the porch steps then angled right in the foyer for the front stairs.

_Lots of yelling—no gunshots... so far, so good...._

Shouts and stomping echoed overhead as Green pounded up the wooden stairs. Two ESU officers, Wardman and Deems, turned to the rear of the house to sweep the floor's occupants down the back stairs. Green and Guardia, the third officer, headed for the open door of the front bedroom.

_Tables heaped with small plastic bags of white powder, boxes of corn starch, precision scales... Double-Dom's product assembly line... no closets, no hiding places, no Meade...._

Green did a fast circuit of the room then waved Guardia into the hall. As he left the room, the radio on his shoulder called his name.

"_No sign of Meade on the first floor,"_ Sears told him. _"We're checking the back yard now. Fontana's coming your way."_

Ed clicked the mic button twice to confirm the message then joined Guardia at the door of the next room. The ESU officer opened the door and checked the room before entering. Green followed right behind, his weapon held in a two-hand grip before him.

_Bedroom... queen-sized unmade bed, dresser, no closet... got a wardrobe, but it's open... both kid and adult clothes hanging in there... large gun safe—could fit an arsenal in there...._

He tried the handle to the safe.

_Locked.... _

Guardia watched both doors, his M4 at the ready, as Green dropped to one knee and checked under the bed.

_Looks like a pair of MaXX Stratospheres, kid-sized...._

The connecting door to the last bedroom was closed. Green waved Guardia to that door as he regained his feet.

_Wardman and Deems checked the bathroom on their way down the back stairs... I haven't heard an all-clear, so Meade has to be in the house... that leaves this next room...._

Guardia turned the knob and pushed the door open. As it swung to the right, Green got a glimpse of a room bare of furniture. The ESU officer entered and halted in the center of the room, even with the open door to the hall. He spun to his right, scanning both the hall and the room for hostiles. Ed jinked to his right and turned around, sweeping his side of the room. An unexpected shape half-hidden by the open door startled him and he halted, his weapon ready, his throat dry and heart pounding.

_He's smaller that I figured—smaller and he looks scared...._

The boy was barefoot and clad only in pale blue boxer shorts, his blond hair sleep-tousled. A large fuzzy brown Teddy bear clasped in front of him hid his hands and chest, but long pale scars laced his thighs below the hem of his shorts.

From the corner of his eye, Green saw Guardia aim his M4 at Meade. The boy shrank back against the wall, his eyes wide and fixed on the Glock also pointed at him.

"No," he said, his voice high and cracking. "Please, no."

"We're not going shoot you, Jason," Green said, trying to sound calm and reassuring.

_Hard to do when my heart's about to pound through my ribs...._

"I'm Detective Green. This is Officer Guardia. We're here to take you somewhere safe."

The boy's attention shifted from Ed's weapon to his face.

"Home?" he asked, his voice a whisper. "Can you take me home?"

"Sure, Jason. You put the bear down and show me both your hands and we'll take you anywhere you want to go."

The boy hugged the bear tighter to his chest. His eyes stayed wide and his breathing quickened as though he were about to panic. Ed glanced at Guardia to his left and raised an eyebrow. The ESU officer gave back the slightest of nods as he shifted his grip on his carbine.

_It's a gamble, but the kid knows we'll shoot if he tries anything...._

Green eased his two-handed grip on his weapon then slowly held a hand out to the boy.

_Now, smile and try not to look like I think he's dangerous...._

"You give me your bear," he said, "and show me both your hands and we'll take you out of here. Okay, Jason?"

The boy drew in a swift breath then nodded. His gaze shifted from Ed's gun to his face and the corner of his mouth twitched. The arm wrapped around his teddy bear slid left as he began to hold it out to Green.

_I still can't see your hands... c'mon, let me see them...._

The shots came from Ed's left. The first struck the bear, knocking it from Jason's hands. The second and third hit center chest. Jason's head snapped forward and he crumpled to the floor, falling face-down by his stuffed animal. Shock froze Green for an instant then training took control. He brought his weapon to bear on the hall door, crab-stepping to get a clear shot around Guardia, who had crouched, ready to fire at the intruder.

_Joe?_

The barrel of Guardia's carbine dropped in unison with Green's Glock, away from the figure framed by the doorway—Fontana, his eyes narrowed and lips tight, his revolver held at arm's length, aimed at Meade's still form.

"Check him," he ordered. "See if he's dead."

Green dropped to one knee by Meade. Opposite him, Guardia squatted down to render assistance if needed.

_No need to check pulse... those bits of rib bone and heart muscle in the exit wounds are enough...._

Ed clenched his teeth to stifle a gag while Guardia placed two fingers on Jason's neck. After a few seconds, the officer shook his head. While he thumbed his mic button, Ed jumped to his feet, holstering his weapon as he dashed to the door.

"Joe," he said, his arm sweeping back to point at the boy. "You just blew him away!"

Fontana lowered his revolver to his side. His gaze never left Meade.

"He was drawing on you, Ed."

"The hell he was! He was handing me a teddy bear. You weren't ten feet away. You saw him!"

Ed spun on his heel to look back into the room. From Fontana's vantage in the doorway, Green saw where Guardia had stood at the center of the room, his own position beyond him, and Jason's place to the left of the door.

_Me, Guardia, and Joe... the three of us in a line... just like White, Weston, and Tierney on the security tape... just like Judith, me, and Joe in Joe's nightmares... Joe saw us lined up like that... he must have zoned out again and snapped...._

Ed turned back to his partner in time for his reply.

"What I saw," Joe said evenly, "was Meade ready to shoot you, just like he shot Fred and Tammy. Little shit got what he deserves."

Ed grabbed his partner by the upper arm and gave him a shake.

"You got it wrong, Joe. You just—"

Joe shrugged away from Ed's grip.

"I just saved your damn hide. How about some gratitude?"

Behind them, ESU and patrol officers filled the hallway from both stairs, some of them craning their necks to get a look in the room, some pointing and talking among themselves. Joe paid them no mind as he poked his finger at his partner's vest.

"After I told you about Brandon Stone almost killing Lake, you go and put yourself in exactly the same situation. You listen, but you don't learn anything and that's gonna get you killed."

_Get me killed? I'm not the one dead...._

Ed stepped up to his partner and lowered his voice to keep the surrounding officers from overhearing.

"Damn it, Joe—tell me you didn't flash back to that dream."

Fontana drew back from Green just as sharp heel clicks paired with the solid thump of boots announced the arrival of the lieutenants. Sears called Guardia to his side; Van Buren joined her detectives in the hall. A glare from her sent the rubber-neckers away, giving the three some privacy.

"What the hell went down here?" she asked. "Fontana?"

Fontana unclipped his holster and held it with his revolver for her to take. He then made a show of smoothing the shirt sleeve wrinkled by Ed's grip, an action that let him avoid his partner's glare.

"I just saved Ed's life," he told her, "not that I'm asking for a medal or anything."

Van Buren examined his expression carefully before giving the scene inside the bedroom a thorough visual inspection. After she returned to the hallway, she ordered the nearest of the Six-One's uniforms to watch over the crime scene until CSU arrived. She then caught Ed's attention and told him wait for her by the bathroom. Turning next to Fontana, she asked him to tell her what had happened.

Green stayed out of earshot while his partner recited his story, but he watched the conversation intently.

_Joe's pissed... he can't admit he was wrong—not even if that kid comes back to life and proves it... the lieu's not happy either... that's the scowl she uses when things are really bad...._

Van Buren held her hand up, a request for Fontana to stay put, then she turned to where Green was waiting. The moment her back was turned, Fontana headed for the bedroom door. The uniform's protest brought both Van Buren and Green to his side.

"And where do you think you're going, Detective?" Van Buren asked.

"I'm going to check that bear and prove that I'm right."

She put a hand on his vest.

"No, you're not. We probably can make this a justified, but not if you go messing with the evidence. You back off and wait—you hear me?"

Joe opened his mouth to protest and Ed shook his head.

"Lieu's right, Joe. You know—"

Fontana's stance stiffened as he drew himself to full height. His glare shifted from Van Buren to Green, and the depth of the anger in it rocked Ed back on his heels.

"Ma'am," Fontana said, his voice low and growling, "if the shooting team wants me, I'll be in the kitchen."

He brushed past his partner without apology and left down the back stairs. The bustle in the hall halted as everyone watched him leave. Next to Green, Van Buren muttered something about hoping he was right then she turned to face him.

"You're up, Ed," she told him. "What happened?"

Green told her the facts as he knew them then...

_Sorry, Joe... I wish I didn't have to do this to you..._

...he told her about Joe's string of nightmares. Van Buren's worried frown deepened at the news of how hard the case had hit the older detective.

"I wondered why he looked so tired," she said, "but I figured it was from working long hours, not that kind of stress. Why didn't you say something, Ed?"

Green shrugged away her question.

_Right now, I wish I had...._

"Lieu," he asked instead, "what did Joe say happened?"

"He said he came up the stairs when you were talking to Meade. He saw the boy tensed and his right hand, the one you say was hidden behind the bear, started to pull back. He concluded that there was a weapon inside the toy and that you were in imminent danger so he fired."

She stared at Green for a moment then she turned to look at Meade's body on the floor of the room.

"Wait here," she told him.

Ed leaned back and watched while Van Buren spoke at length with Lt. Sears. From the expressions and hand gestures, it was obvious she was relaying both his and Fontana's versions to the ESU lieutenant.

_Neither of them look happy about this... if I'm right, Joe's looking at a suspension and a psych review—maybe forced retirement... if he's right, then I'm looking at—_

Van Buren interrupted his train of thought.

"You got spare gloves on you?" she asked.

Ed leaned sideways to get his pants pocket clear of his vest and fished two out for her. Van Buren slid them onto her hands as she walked to where the bear lay next to Meade. Sears accompanied her to witness her handling of evidence.

"Teddy bears are stuffed with foam or polyester," she said as she squatted down to pick up the toy. "That's what makes them soft and huggable."

Ed leaned against the door frame next to the officer guarding the scene.

"You're saying that it should have been a through-and-through?" he asked.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.

She picked up the bear by its ear and bounced it up and down.

"Some thing's shifting inside."

A wave of nausea twisted Ed's stomach as she turned the bear over and ran a finger down the back seam.

"Damn," she said as she reached inside a slit in the seam to pull out a small semi-automatic, steel and black, its grip smashed by the impact of a .38 slug. Holding its barrel between thumb and forefinger, she displayed it for all to see.

"That's a Kahr P9," Sears noted. "Lightweight and accurate."

Van Buren twisted to face Green and pinned him with a flat stare.

"Hate to say it, Ed," she told him, "but you ought to be dead."

Enroute to the Sixteenth Precinct  
11 July

While the shooting team interviewed him, while the Chief of Detectives and the Brooklyn Duty Chief questioned him, while he ducked out of the house, avoiding both Van Buren and Green, while he caught a ride back to Manhattan and his own precinct, and while he drove his car from there to his destination, the same thought kept roiling through Fontana's head:

_Damn, talk about stupid...._

Sometimes, he was thinking of the questions being asked him.

_No, I didn't shoot Meade for revenge on Tierney and White—I shot him because he was about to shoot my partner... no, I'm not a rogue cop—I had good reasons for roughing up Lowell and Lucas—reasons that obviously don't apply to this case..._

Sometimes, he was thinking about the NYPD's standard operating procedures.

_I should be interrogating Dominick Anacacis... I don't care if mandatory suspension is required right now—Anacacis is mine... my case, my collar...._

Sometimes, he was thinking about the look of disbelief on his lieutenant's face when he told her how it went down.

_How dare she doubt my story... you'd think I was in the habit of lying to her...._

Mostly, he thought about his partner.

_Another couple seconds and Ed would have been dead on that floor, not Meade... kid was good at head shots—that's how he killed Fred and Tammy... I told Ed about Lake so he'd know what we were up against... ignoring that info was stupid..._

Joe had checked on his partner after the shooting team finished questioning him. Green was in the front room on his cell phone. Joe listened long enough to figure out that Green was keeping his promise to Tom Meade.

_No doubt telling him how his stressed-out crazy partner blew his son away... _

While he waited for a red light two blocks from the Sixteenth Precinct, he thought about how partners were supposed to watch each other's backs...

_...not stab me in mine... he told Van Buren that stress made me shoot Meade... she passed it on to the brass... the shoot's gonna be ruled justified, but I'm suspended until I prove to some shrink that I'm mentally fit for duty...._

That thought knotted his gut and made his palms on the steering wheel slick with sweat.

_...if I can prove it... you never can't tell about shrinks...._

The light changed and Fontana floored the gas pedal.

_Of course I'll prove it... I'm not letting that slimy excuse for a partner diddle me just to cover his own stupidity... I saved his life and he ratted me out... that's more than stupid... it's unforgivable...._

Fontana pulled into the One-Six's motor pool and parked his SL under the envious eye of the mechanic on duty. On his way into the building, he clipped his shield to his lapel.

_I figured Judith would be home by now, but Central Dispatch said she's still here... must be some pile of paperwork she's working through...._

Outside the glass doors leading into the Manhattan SVU's squadroom, Joe paused to see where she was.

_I don't see her or her partner... doesn't look like her shift's on yet—no Stabler or Benson, no what's-his-name—the guy who skis... don't see him, either...._

He then turned left and followed the hall past the interrogation room to the holding area between Robbery and SVU. Through those doors, he spotted Judith in the interview room at the far end of the room. She was sitting with her back to the door, her head bowed forward. Across from her, the skier guy sat facing the window.

_Munch—yeah, that's his name... Judith can't be working something new already... I was hoping for some time with her... haven't seen her since—hell, since this damn case started.... _

He pushed the door open and headed straight for the interview room. No one paid him any mind until he reached for its door knob.

"Wait! You can't go in there!"

"Yeah? Watch me," he muttered as he proceeded to disregard the warning.

Once inside, both Munch and Judith turned toward him. Neither looked happy, but Judith's scowl immediately softened.

_Hey... she's wearing my earrings.... _

"Joe? Are you all right?"

_She looks beat to hell... tired...._

Her nostrils twitched.

"What happened? Is Ed okay?"

He spat the name back at her.

"He's the reason I'm here and not questioning Double-Dom the drug lord. Do you know what Ed did to me? Do you know what he did? He—"

_...he damned near died...._

The anger that had propelled him from the house in Brooklyn drained away. His hands went cold and air refused to fill his lungs although he felt himself panting for it. He could see Judith not more than five feet from him, but she now felt impossibly far away.

..._like I'm trapped in a telescope aimed at her... can't move... can't get out... can't breathe...._

"Joe? What's wrong?"

His jaw sagged open, but he couldn't force an answer from his throat. He looked from Judith to Munch, both of them so far out of reach, and he wished like hell they would get to him in time.

Something hit the back of his knees. Pressure on his shoulders pushed him down and his rump hit the seat of a chair. The pressure kept up bending him over until all he saw was his Belgian loafers on scuffed green linoleum.

"It's all right, Joe. Just breathe, one slow breath in. It's all right. We got you and it's all right."

Warm hands grabbed his and held them. Another hand on his shoulder keep him from falling forward while he gasped and shivered. Overhead, he heard voices, but nothing said by them seemed important at the moment.

_Breathe... try to remember how... try...._

Finally, his lungs acknowledged they had air again. He nodded to answer Judith's calm assurances and was surprised when his neck and head moved as he wanted.

"Can you talk?"

_That's Munch asking...._

He raised his head slowly then said, "Yeah, I think so."

Judith's hands tightened around his fingers. The firm grip didn't hide how much she was trembling as she knelt next to him.

_I just scared her as much as I did me.... _

"Joe," she asked, "what happened?"

_I think I froze... like some damn rookie all hyped up on adrenaline and fright...._

Whatever had grabbed him and shook him like a chew toy still muddled his mind. His thoughts tumbled without conscious order.

_...Ed bleeding from throat and face like Fred had... the fear in Lake's eyes when he remembered facing Brandon Stone's gun... the fear Ed showed when he gave Meade a chance to surrender... and that kid... little bit of a kid... his dad flew halfway across the country for him... the happy boy on a toy bike... Ed took a chance for both of them... and I... and I...._

His throat tightened and his sight blurred, but he held together long enough to answer her question.

"I killed a kid."

The chapter titled "Immiscible" in the story "The Defiant Ones" continues the Fontana storyline. Next chapter in Corrosive is "Amid the Wreckage."


	25. Amid the Wreckage

A/N: The bit about the precinct house originally being a courthouse is from SVU show lore. It's also time to give Fin a life. The Bible verse under discussion is James 3:8.

Sixteenth Precinct  
Robbery Unit: Interview Room #4  
11 July

When the Sixteenth's building was built back in 1887, sunlight and gaslight were the main illuminations and air conditioning meant opening a window and hoping for a breeze. All its original rooms faced an exterior wall or air shaft to allow for ventilation and light. The building was converted from a courthouse into one of the first fully electrified precincts in the early 1920s, but the central HVAC system wasn't installed until 1983. Only after that could interior walls be shifted without regard for windows or air shafts.

The results were graceless chambers such as Interview Room #4. A narrow rectangle that opened off Robbery's bullpen, its dingy green confines cried out for the relief of a window view. During her drive in, Olivia Benson had wondered why Howie picked this room when he ruined her Sunday morning by asking her to meet with him ASAP.

_Now I know... it's the perfect place to be knocked for a loop, which is what Brewster just did to me...._

"John and Judith tried to kill each other? You've got to be kidding!"

Brewster's tight frown held no sign of joking. He sprawled in a side chair before her, feet splayed before him, his right arm propped on the table to take some strain off his abdomen.

_He collapsed on that chair like an injured orangutan... when I asked why he was favoring his side, all he said was Munch punched him... I thought he w_as joking....

"Sue claims she saw them reach for their weapons," he told her. "She called out for someone to break it up, so I run over and grabbed Munch by the arm."

He shifted in his chair and winced.

"That's when he sucker-punched me. Sofarelli got his partner in a bear hug and she broke his nose—"

"But Couch is a black belt."

Howie waved away her objection. "Yeah? Well it didn't do him any good. Otten threw her head back and caught him right in the schnozz."

Olivia raised an eyebrow at that news.

_That's SOP for an attack from behind...break someone's nose and all they think about is pain... but, damn it, Couch shouldn't have fallen for that trick...._

"That's how things stood," Howie continued, "when Cragen came in—me still doubled over, Sofarelli bleeding all over the place, Munch and Otten frozen like deer in headlights. Cragen was not happy, not at all happy."

"What did he do?"

"Gave all of us a really dirty look then he started to get to the bottom of things. He sent Munch to Interview One with Maddox to watch him and Otten to Two with Smoot. He talked to everyone in the squadroom, then Sofarelli, Sue, and me at length."

Howie frowned. "He asked if I wanted to press charges against John."

"And?"

She tensed, ready to tear Brewster a new one if he answered wrong.

"Hell, no—although I'm reconsidering if I start to pee blood."

Olivia noted the upturn at the corner of his mouth and decided that, this time, Howie was joking.

"What did Couch say?" she asked.

"Guessing from the lack of a rep sitting with Otten, he's not pressing charges, either."

"So, what happened? Cragen didn't turn them over to the rats, did he?"

Howie shrugged. "If you want to know, you'll have to ask Cragen. He isn't talking to me."

He wrapped both hands around the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet.

"I've been breathing a sigh of relief because it's your shift getting the crap kicked out of it and not mine. But today, two detectives tried to kill each other on my watch—your people, Benson. Your shit on my shift."

Olivia planted her feet and braced herself against the insult.

"Got any suggestions, Howie?"

"Yeah. Fix it."

Olivia scowled at him.

"Hell of a lot of help that is. Thanks, Brewster."

He ran his hand through his thatch of red hair then he shook his head slowly.

"That's not how I meant it. What I mean is, if you don't take steps, who will? Cragen?"

Olivia's blurted "Yeah, right" echoed Brewster's thick disdain.

"Chief Conrad?" he continued. "Beale? Hate to say it, Olivia, but this one is all yours."

Brewster took a step toward the door.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and stand by Sue. Should be fun: half my people think she was right to speak up, half think she should have kept her mouth shut."

"What do you think?"

Howie's shoulders sagged, making him look even more like a red ape.

"I think she's my partner and let's leave it at that."

Olivia let Howie return to the squadroom. She cut through Robbery then took a right by the holding tank so she could observe the unit from the hallway. Inside, the detectives of Howie's shift worked their cases and moved about the room as usual.

_It's always weird seeing the other shift in our work space, using our copy machine, talking by our desks... damn... Howie was right about Sue... both Amelia and Sam just snubbed her at the coffee pot...._

She craned her neck to see into Interview One, but Munch was not there. Instead, she saw Chloe fussing with a laptop computer that sat open on the wooden table.

_Okay... they must be in Cragen's office getting their butts chewed...._

The thought that Judith had more to be chewed off than John made her choke back a laugh.

_This isn't funny... if Sue is right, then John and Judith both attempted assault with a deadly weapon and that means Cragen has to turn them over to the rat squad... even if he decides Sue is wrong, I doubt he'll go easy on them...._

Olivia spent a few moments wishing the two older detectives had waited for their own shift to pull this stunt.

_Howie is right; our shit on his shift... our shit on our own shift, too... even if Cragen only suspends John and Judith, come four o'clock, it will be just the four of us... one-half the required duty roster... and we spent last shift barely being civil to each other... with two more gone, we can't cover our cases...._

She headed for the stairs as she mulled over the situation.

_Be nice if Cragen would resolve this.... what a dick... I hope his head comes out of his ass after he finally wangles those oak leaves...._

Between the third and second floors, it hit her.

_Fixing this isn't a matter of rearranging partner assignments... that's no better than rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic—we're going to sink no matter how I line them up...._

She slowed her pace down the stairs.

_To fix this correctly, I have to get to the root of it and start there... anything else is a Band-aid on an arterial bleeder...._

That thought occupied her until she reached her car. She slumped in the driver's seat and ran through the possibilities.

_Things I can't fix: Cragen's ridiculous promotion chase... Fred and Tammy's deaths... Couch's taking the sergeant's exam... Fontana and Judith—what in hell is Judith thinking? Smugtana, for God's sake...._

The thought of anyone voluntarily pairing up with that self-satisfied jerk sent a shudder down her spine.

_But hey—it's her life, not mine... now, maybe I should have done something about her bickering with John... at the time, it seemed harmless—a way to blow off some steam... everyone does something to relieve the stress... John rants about civil liberties, Elliot talks about his kids, we had Tammy and her practical jokes...._

The memory of Stabler coldly telling her to go to Hell after Tammy's last prank interrupted her thoughts.

_That really tore it... if I thought he was ignoring me these past two weeks, that was nothing compared to last night... as far as Elliot was concerned, I was dead and long buried—a ghost without form or substance... Fin at least talked to me about cases—if you can call one-syllable responses and grunts communication...._

She drew in a deep sigh.

_We can't keep on like this... I knew when we all blew up at each other that something had to be done... I knew I'd have to do it... I even know what I have to do... it's just that I'm no good at saying "I'm sorry"...._

She leaned back and rolled her head against the headrest, trying to loosen taut muscles.

_I'd rather French-kiss a rat than apologize to Stabler... he's the one who didn't support me... he questioned my professionalism and stability, which is a real laugh considering... but I'm the one who hit him below the belt with Tammy's list... ball's in my court now...._

She took her phone from her pocket and punched in the speed-dial for Elliot's apartment. After four rings, his answering machine picked up. Rather than leave a message, she tried his cell.

"This is Detective Elliot Stab—"

She hung up as soon as she recognized the voicemail recording then she checked her watch.

_Almost eleven... either he's at church or it's his weekend with his kids...._

On a hunch, she called his house. The phone picked up on the third ring.

"Stabler residence, Richard speaking."

She chatted with Elliot's son for a few minutes, asking about his week at camp and his other summer activities, before she inquired about his dad's whereabouts.

"He picked Mom and Lizzie up and took them to eleven o'clock Mass. Lizzie had a soccer tournament yesterday in Albany and they got back real late."

Olivia thanked him for the info then ended the call.

_If I leave now, I should get there before service is over... where better to apologize than a church? If nothing else, Stabler won't dare start anything there.... almost like "Highlander"—holy ground is safe.._..

With a snorted laugh at that notion, Olivia turned her key in the ignition and headed toward Queens.

Office of Captain D. Cragen  
Manhattan Special Victims Unit  
11 July

He had listened to Sue Lynde's version of the event. He had verified that neither Howie nor Couch wished to press charges. He had watched Munch and Otten stonewall him, each of them granting that there had been an argument, but neither giving up what caused it, and neither admitting to any form of assault.

Now, with the Venetian blinds closed for privacy, he stared at the two service weapons and the two detective shields in their cases, one with Munch's I.D., the other with Otten's, and wished he had the answer to one question only.

_Couldn't they have waited until after the promotion list came out?_

Third Grade Boys' Bible Class  
Ebenezer A. M. E. Church  
Rochester Avenue, Brooklyn  
11 July

The boys in the mismatched desks all were dressed in pants with belts and logo-free shirts. By Pastor Briggs' request, the Lord's Day was free of advertising and lewd t-shirt sayings. Some of the boys were from the projects, kids Mrs. Rachel Washington rounded up every Sunday and Wednesday to bring with her. Others were the children of long-time members. Fin had sat in this same classroom with their parents when his grandmother had brought him and his brother to Sunday worship.

Now, he stood at the front of the class, dressed not in hand-me-down slacks and a much-washed shirt, but in a deep red shirt and black tie with a gray three-piece suit.

_I'm the closest some of these kids get to a father figure... it behooves me to set a good example in dress and behavior...._

"So," he told his class, "the Bible tells us to control our tongue because it's an 'unruly evil, full of deadly poison.' You understand what that means?"

Caleb Johnson, a short stocky boy from the projects, held his hand up first.

"If'n we talk without thinking 'bout what we gonna say," he answered, "we say shit we oughtn't say."

Fin scowled at his choice of words. Kemel Lambeth, a skinny kid eclipsed by Caleb seated before him, poked him in the shoulder while the other boys snickered.

"That's exactly what it means," Fin told him, "and you prove it by answering like that. There's places where your words should be clean and this is one of them. Try it again."

Caleb rolled his eyes at the request, but he managed to repeat his answer using "stuff" in the appropriate place.

"That's better," Fin told him. "What this verse says is that your tongue—your mouth—can get both you and other people in trouble, sometimes big trouble. The words you speak can ruin people's reputations as well as hurt their feelings. Words can cause fights and make people hate you—sometimes get you and others killed."

His cell rang. The screen's caller ID showed the call came from Dan Womack, a detective on Howie's shift and a friend of Fin's. A quick glance at the room's wall clock showed that class was almost over.

"So you all watch what you say. Do your memory work and come back next week—you hear me?"

The boys shot from their seats as Fin answered his phone.

"Dan—what you got? What? The hell you say...."

At the news, Fin turned his back to the classroom's door, privacy being instinctive when hearing the words "partner", "assault", and "Cragen's on the warpath." This meant he did not see Caleb and Kemel remain behind to see what was up with him.

"Hey—Deet say 'Hell'," Caleb whispered to Kemel.

Kemel slugged him in the arm. "You call him 'Detective Tutuola' when we's at church."

"Munch is a damn fool," Fin said in reply to Womack's news. "Always said that mouth of his would get his scrawny ass in trouble."

Behind his back, the two boys stared wide-eyed at Tutuola.

"God's gonna strike Deet-ective Tutuola dead right here in front of us," Caleb said with a grin in Kemel's direction. "He say 'damn' and 'ass' after he say we can't say such things."

"Mrs. Washington hear you talk like that," Kemel told him, "she's gonna—"

"I tells her Deet say it first. Anyhow, man's a fool for saying I can't say 'shit' when he talks like that."

"Deet ain't no fool. Everybody know that."

Their whispered argument finally caught Fin's attention.

"Dan, I gotta go. Some boys here are forgetting their manners."

He pocketed the phone and shifted his glare to the two third-graders.

"Now," he asked, "why you listening in on my conversation?"

Kemel eyed Caleb, daring him to answer the question. Under the weight of his friend's urging and knowing he'd pay if he didn't speak up, Caleb stood straight, stuck his hands in his pants pockets, and met Fin's glare with a wide-eyed, innocent smile.

"We hear you saying 'damn' and 'hell.' I was tellin' Kemel God don't like hearing that here."

Fin stared sourly at the two boys.

_Judging from Kemel's blank expression, Caleb is lying, but I'm still busted... better 'fess up and show the two of them how a man admits to his mistakes...._

"You're right," he said. "God doesn't like that—not in Bible class, not outside of Bible class, neither. I was wrong to talk like that. I apologize to you for doing it."

Both boys blinked at him like startled pigeons. Finally, Caleb spoke.

"It's okay, Deet. You's human, too."

"That guy Munch you talking about," Kemel asked. "He in trouble?"

Fin folded his arms across his chest and pondered the question.

_I don't want to talk about it... but I promised I wouldn't lie to you guys when I said I'd be your teacher...._

"Yeah, Munch shot his mouth off one too many times."

"Like you was talking about in class?"

"Yeah. He's been spreading some truly vile poison about people and it got him in trouble with our captain."

Kemel peered up at Tutuola.

"You gonna help him?"

Fin drew back in astonishment.

_Hell, no—I gave up on him when he tried to ruin my career... but I can't tell Kemel that... can't be a bad example...._

"No, Kemel. My help won't do him any good right now."

"If you can't help him," Caleb said, "then he's in some real deep shi—stuff. You want us to pray for him?

The thought of Caleb and Kemel asking God for Munch's deliverance from the hands of the Rat Squad brought a grin to Fin's lips. He quickly covered his mouth and faked a cough.

"Excuse me," he said. "Prayer's always a good thing, but I don't know—"

"S'okay, Deet. We gots time before service starts."

Caleb caught his friend's attention then they both closed their eyes and raised their arms then they both began to sway.

_Perfect imitations of Rachel Washington... I hope she don't walk by right now...._

"Father Lord God," Caleb intoned, "you who created the heavens and the earth and everything in it, Deet and Kemel and me ask you to protect—"

He stopped swaying and opened his eyes.

"Is Munch a detective like you?"

Fin nodded and Caleb resumed his proper prayer position.

"We ask you to protect Detective Munch from the troubles his tongue got him in. You be with him and make sure he stays out of trouble after this. You're gonna do this 'cause when we pray in Jesus' name, things happen. Amen."

"Amen," Kemel repeated.

Both he and Caleb stopped swaying and stared up at Fin.

"That okay, Deet?" Kemel asked. "You think Caleb needs to pray more?"

Fin had to clear his throat before he could answer.

"No, boys. You both did just fine. Munch couldn't want a better prayer than that."

Both boys grinned at his praise.

"Thanks, Deet," Caleb replied. "We got to go now or Mrs. Washington will come get us and we don't want that."

Kemel shook his head hard. "No. She likes us punctual."

With that, both boys dashed from the class room. Fin remained where he was as he tried to figure out what had just happened.

_I guess they actually listen to what we say to them here... that's a real humbling thought...._

He slid his Bible into his suit jacket pocket and turned out the room's lights.

_I ever talk to Munch again, I gotta tell him about this... he won't believe it...._

Interview One  
Manhattan SVU  
11 July

_This place really is a fishbowl... never seems that way when I'm in here questioning someone... of course, then my mind is on that person and their answers... I'm the cop, not the perp...._

Munch took a lap around the table. Officer Maddox, a pear-shaped man two months away from his thirty years and retirement, watched from the corner by the door as the detective breezed past him for the fifteenth time.

_No one in their right mind would set Jerry Maddox to guard a dangerous felon... not only am I in deep shit, I'm also considered harmless...._

He stopped at the door to gaze at his reflection.

_Any second now, this door will open and two of IAB's finest will enter... if I really have Bolander's horseshoe up my butt, they won't make me wear cuffs—who am I kidding? That kind of luck ran out the moment Otten stood up to hit me... another two seconds and she would have swung like a girl and missed... giving me cause to deck her the way I decked Lt. Cutler... that happened only a month ago... I'm sure the rats haven't forgotten how I helped pull their chestnuts out of the fire—maybe that will count for something...._

His reflection sneered at the thought.

_Yeah, right—when was the last time IAB did anyone here a favor?_

He shrugged just to see his reflection act nonchalant about his situation.

_At least they can't yank my benefits and pension... I knew when I moved that retirement age would come before I made my twenty here, but no one can touch what I get from Baltimore... Otten, however, will lose everything—pension, health benefits, reputation...._

His reflection broke into a wide grin.

_Serves her right for starting this... I'll hit bottom, but she'll hit rock bottom... I can live with that...._


	26. Rebuilding: part one

A/N: There's probably a name in SVU canon for Father Denis' church, but this is my AU. Also remember that the departure point for this story is after RAW—no divorce, no baby, just a separation for the Stablers.

Parking lot  
Saints Peter and Paul Roman Catholic Church  
Queens, NY  
11 July

Father Denis held up the line of departing worshipers to spend an extra few seconds with the Stablers.

"It's good to see the three of you," he told them.

Elizabeth's nod was borderline polite; she was more intent what was coming after Mass—an afternoon with friends at the roller rink. Kathy responded with a kind word about Father Denis' sermon while Elliot's smile was just lopsided enough to show he knew the real reason for the priest's joy.

_If Kathy and I are back together, he doesn't have to play go-between for us... that gives him more time to practice his golf swing...._

Standing there in the church narthex, they were a mismatched trio: Elizabeth in jeans and layers of cotton pastel shirts pulled low at her waist to make her parents happy, Kathy in a yellow and green sun dress with a sweater to ward off the over-active A/C in the sanctuary, Elliot in a dark blue shirt, navy slacks, and a sport coat in a brown that Kathleen called "baby poop."

_I know, I know... I don't have any taste or style... even Cragen is dressing better than me... but I like this jacket...._

The abrupt change from inside lighting to high noon sunlight made both Elliot and Kathy pause on the top of the church steps to shade their eyes. Their daughter was too busy looking for her friends to be bothered by the glare.

"They're here, Mom," Elizabeth announced with a sweep of her arm to indicate a yellow Xterra stopped by a hydrant across the street, its back seat occupied by three girls. "Is it okay if I go now?"

Kathy turned to look at Elliot. Elizabeth jumped down two steps and pouted at her parents.

"Mom! Don't say 'I have to check with your father.' You already said I could go and everyone's waiting on me!"

"Don't whine," Elliot told her. "Have a good time and be home by—"

"—6 p.m.," Kathy completed his sentence. "You still have math homework to do."

The smile prompted by Elliot's permission vanished with her mother's pronouncement. Elizabeth turned and dashed for her friends, using only a wave over her shoulder to take her leave of her parents.

"I've been thinking about boarding school," Kathy said. "Maybe something in Alaska."

"For you or for Lizzie?"

She blinked at the thought then smiled.

"Might be a good business to go into—away camp for moms who can't afford Saint Tropez or the Bahamas."

A hitch in Kathy's voice told Elliot there was something deeper in her quip.

_Dr. Jackson said Kathy really regretted taking our kids and leaving, but it was her last-ditch attempt to get through to me... cutting herself off from the little support I gave her in the hope I'd finally notice how much we we need one another—her, me, the kids... all of us...._

He nodded his understanding of both the quip and the message.

"You can call it 'Camp We Deserve Sainthood for What We Put Up With.'"

Kathy's gaze drifted to where Elizabeth was getting into the Xterra.

"Oh, yes," she said. "You got that right."

Elliot turned toward the parking lot next to the church as he said, "You're doing a great job. Some day, Lizzie will realize that."

Kathy fell into step beside him.

"With my luck, she'll wait until she has teenagers. Anyway, I don't want to spend my afternoon without kids talking about them."

She peered at him sideways as they walked, her lips parted in a doubt-filled smile.

"Are we still on for doing Dr. Jackson's homework assignment?"

Elliot's teeth automatically clenched.

_Oh, yeah... 'find a neutral place—a restaurant or picnic area—and let Kathy know what you're dealing with at work and in your life... you don't need to give her all the gory details, but you do need to tell her how your cases make you feel and how they affect your view of your family and your life. Next week, it will be Kathy's turn to tell you about her situation.' Telling my wife about pedophiles and rapists over lunch sounds good, real good...._

And yet, as Kathy watched him work his jaw until tense muscles loosened, he knew it had to be done.

_Kathy knows I talk about this shit with everyone else in my life... if I'm going to fix things between us, I got to include her, too...._

"I'm not describing crime scenes in the middle of Alfano's Sunday lunch crowd," he told her. "I'll get thrown out. Mind if I skip some of the details?"

Kathy's head bobbed in reply. "I don't need to hear everything, Elliot. I just want to understand what matters most to you. It's not like I'm going to join you and Olivia while you work your cases."

He forced a grin to keep his jaw from clenching again.

_It's me and John now... that's how far out of the loop she is...._

"That's part of what I have to tell you," he said as they entered the parking lot. "Olivia and I... well, we're not—shit!"

"What, Elliot?"

He jerked his head in the direction of his Jeep, parked halfway up the second row of cars. Benson's car was parked in the next space with her leaning against its front fender. She wore tan slacks and a green cotton sweater over a cream shell, clothes both Stablers recognized as work dress.

"I didn't hear your phone," Kathy said. "You don't have to go in, do you?"

"I turned it off before Mass," he said with a shrug. "If anyone was coming to get me, it would be Munch. We're working together now."

Kathy's eyebrows rose as she glanced from Olivia to Elliot.

"You're not partnered with Olivia? Why?"

"It's part of what I'm supposed to tell you. C'mon—let's see what's up with her."

He quickened his pace with Kathy matching his stride next to him, her sandals clicking against the concrete. Their sound alerted Olivia, who jerked around at their approach.

_She's biting her lower lip... that means she's on edge... great—last thing I need is a blow-up here at church... maybe she won't go postal if I stay polite...._

"Hey," he said in greeting. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Hi, Olivia," said Kathy. "How have you been?"

Olivia took a step toward them and swallowed once before answering.

"I'm doing fine, Kathy. Elliot, I need to talk to you."

Elliot opened his mouth to say that now was not a good time....

_... 'never' works best for me..._

... but Olivia did not wait for his reply.

"Look," she said, "I know it's Sunday and you two probably have plans, but I need to tell you that... well—"

She grimaced, her mouth twisted as though tasting sourballs, before continuing,

"...that list of Tammy's. You were right; taping it to the fridge was below the belt. I should have tossed it with the rest of her trash."

Kathy tipped her head and blinked in confusion. Elliot wondered what the hell Benson was up to.

_She only apologizes for little things—a 'Sorry' if the deli forgot the jalapeño chips or if she steps on my feet in the elevator... she must need something from me—something big...._

He planted his feet and folded his arms across his chest.

_You want something? You can damn well ask Fin...._

Olivia ignored his reactions as she forged on.

"And the Sikkens case—well...."

She paused for a deep breath.

"I took pity on an old man and forgot about his victim. After all the cases I've worked, I should know better."

Elliot's blood pressure jump as he fought the urge to sneer back at her.

'_...the cases you worked'... I thought we worked them together... guess you forgot that part, too.... _

Her gaze flicked from Elliot to Kathy then to the asphalt between them.

"When I found out how wrong I was, I got all pissy and blamed it on you, which made everything worse."

Her gaze came back up to meet his.

"Elliot, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that, either."

Elliot held himself perfectly still, the sounds of cars leaving the church parking lot drowned by the pounding of blood through his veins.

_Nice words, Benson... you probably practiced them on the way here... did you plan to trap me at church where I can't tell you off ? What's your real game? _

He said nothing in reply. The moments stretched long while Kathy stared at him and Benson shifted her stance in the silence.

"I want to fix things," she finally said, a hint of exasperation raising her voice. "Every thing's shit and someone has to make it right."

His lip curled with disgust.

"Right? Right like you lying to Cragen so you could work with Fin? Right like you sniping at me every chance you get?"

"No!" she snapped, then quickly lowered her voice. "That wasn't right—that was stupid. I was..."

She sighed deeply.

"I was running from being wrong about Sikkens. Now, I'm lead and I can't run from this. I have to try and fix it."

At that moment, Kathy placed her hand on Elliot's upper arm. Its light pressure reminded him of all the times she had used the same gesture during arguments with his dad, his in-laws, and their children.

_She thinks I should step back and think this through... count to ten...._

He glanced from Kathy's anxious frown to Benson, whose lower lip was hooked back behind her teeth again.

_She's worrying about how it's going to turn out... okay, so she didn't have to drive up here to start a fight... she could have jumped me at work... maybe she isn't working an angle... okay, I'll give it a couple seconds... _

Elliot uncrossed his arms and shook out the tension in them. He then stuck his hands in his pants pockets and tried to look calm and casual.

_I'm supposed to forgive the way I'd want to be forgiven... If Olivia really is swallowing her pride, I guess I can try, too.... _

He drew in a deep breath then blew it out slowly.

"Yeah," he said, "it has been hell recently."

Olivia nodded her agreement.

"I could use some help putting the pieces back together—"

"—because we work better as a team," he replied.

Her eyes widened in surprise then Olivia smiled, a slow upturn of her lips that made her look young and happy.

_I just finished her sentence for her... back in the partner groove that fast?_

He smiled in return and felt as though a ton of stress was lifted from his shoulders.

_Yeah... that fast...._

Kathy gave his arm a squeeze.

"Proud of you," she whispered.

Before he could respond, she turned to Olivia.

"Elliot is going to tell me about the past few months over lunch," she said. "It sounds complicated and he might need back-up. Would you like to join us?"

Elliot choked back a chuckle.

_'Complicated' just doesn't describe it...._

He took his hand from his pocket and slipped it around hers.

"We're going to Alfano's. That's where Cap and Judith had their first date," he told Olivia. "I can show you where they were making out."

His arm jerked as Kathy turned back to face him.

"What?"

The question held as much disbelief as curiosity. Olivia answered her first.

"Like you said, Kathy—it's complicated. If you don't mind, I'll beg off on lunch; I have some errands to run this afternoon."

The smile on her face tightened as she took a step toward them.

"If you get a chance, call me before you come in. John and Judith got into it again this morning and looks like Cragen's taking disciplinary action. We'll probably be working at half-strength for a while."

The news rocked Elliot back on his heels. Only his awareness of being on church property kept him from expressing his annoyance in appropriate terms.

"Jeez, what was it this time?" he asked.

Olivia's shrug did not answer his question.

"You two have a good lunch," she said instead. "Kathy, I'll talk a rain check, if you don't mind. Ill fill you in on all the juicy stuff Elliot skips."

With that said, she opened her car door and drove off. Her wave as she passed the two of them was accompanied by a big grin. Elliot's smile was more thoughtful.

_So she really did apologize... and she really did have a reason for coming up here... sounds like John and Judith screwed it big time... the way Cap's been recently, I'd have bet nothing short of weapons discharge in the squadroom would get his attention...._

As soon as she stopped waving back at Olivia, Kathy stepped around to face Elliot.

"Who's Judith and why was Captain Cragen making out with her at Alfano's?"

Elliot's breath caught in his throat.

_Okay... might as well start there... it is the point when everything went to hell for us..._

"You heard about Chief of Department Sullivan resigning?"

She nodded. "Your CO was involved in that?"

"We all were," he said with a sigh. "It was a undercover operation that began over in that meeting room."

He pointed at the parish hall before opening the passenger door for her.

"Get in and I'll tell you all about Operation Chestnut, the gift that keeps on screwing."

JavaJones  
Varick Street  
11 July

The coffee shop was busy, surprising on a day when Olivia expected people to be spending their afternoon outdoors. She claimed an empty table by snatching a much-read Sunday Ledger sports section from a chair and tossing it onto the table as she strode past. After ordering, she then brought back two large coffees: one regular, one with skim and Splenda, and two cranberry muffins.

_Fin can consider this a bribe if he wants... I'm thankful he spared me a few minutes before shift...._

Her plan was simple: get Fin to agree to play nice with Elliot, Couch, and her.

_Executing the plan—well, that's the hard part... he's not thrilled about Couch trying to make sergeant, so that's one problem... after the fight over Tammy's list, Elliot and I both were on Fin's wrong side—Elliot for telling him to butt out, me for saying Munch was acting like a jilted lover... Fin meant it when he told me never to mention that topic...working with him yesterday was like being chained to a glacier...._

The front door opened and Fin paused at the threshold to survey the interior.

_Getting the lay of the land... and sneering at the yuppies giving him the nervous eye... I know he's just being a cop—I did the same thing, but no one edged away from me... it's a mixed group so it can't be color... must be Fin's expression and that black hoodie...._

She hid a smile behind her hand.

_If they knew it really does hide a firearm, they'd all pee their pants.... _

When he spotted her, Olivia pointed at the foam cup opposite her own and waved him to her. He finished his visual check of the place then came over and sat down.

"Hey," he said as he claimed his coffee with a hand around the cup.

"Thanks for coming, Fin."

"This about Munch?"

The coldness in his voice warned her to tread carefully.

"Not directly. You know what happened today?"

He nodded once. "Dan Womack filled me in; he thought we were still partners. He said Munch got himself and Judith in trouble with IAB."

Olivia sipped her coffee.

_I'm not here to debate guilt or innocence... I'm here to eat more crow...._

"Maybe not with IAB," she said, "but definitely in trouble. I'm assuming that, whatever happens, it's gong to leave us short-handed. Given how rough yesterday was and how I started the argument that got everyone riled—"

Fin leaned back and shook his head.

"Don't."

She started to protest his interruption, but Fin kept talking.

"The stress got to all of us. You don't have to say anything. We're good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I just needed a day to get over it. You and me, Stabler and Sofarelli. We'll manage."

His use of last names threw her off-stride.

_'You and me'? I was thinking you and Couch... I just fixed things with Elliot, so we're back together..._

Olivia drew in a big swig of coffee to buy time.

"Do you know if Elliot knows about the sergeant's exam?" she asked.

Fin puzzled through the idea while he removed the lid of his coffee and blew on its contents.

"Don't know. I heard Couch begged off Elliot's Fourth of July party at the last minute and they ain't talked much since. Being as they were partnered in uniform, it's possible Elliot knows."

He blew on his coffee once more then took a swig of it.

"You willing to work with Couch?" she asked.

Fin narrowed his eyes as he considered the question.

"Yeah," he replied. "I don't like it, but I'd do the same as Couch if I wanted to be sergeant. You willing to work with Stabler?"

Olivia kept her gaze steady as she answered.

"I went up to Queens this morning. Elliot and me—we're good."

Only someone who had worked closely with Fin would notice the slight twitch in his cheek muscle before he nodded his approval of that bit of news.

_Yeah, Fin—I actually said "I'm sorry"... it wasn't as bad as I feared, but it certainly wasn't fun..._

"Okay then," she said, "you and Couch, me and Elliot—we'll hold things together."

Thirty-five minutes later, she was holding people apart—the people being Elliot and Sue Lynde. They were in the hall by the air shaft, halfway between the elevator and the squadroom. Olivia had a grip on Sue Lynde's arm, keeping Sue from launching herself at Stabler. Fin had set himself between the two detectives, his back to Lynde, his hand raised to warn Elliot to stay back.

Physical separation did not stop the argument.

"I don't care if they're the two best shots in the universe," Lynde shouted. "I saw them go for their weapons."

Elliot leaned left to glare at her over Fin's shoulder.

"That's bull," he replied, "and you know it."

"Enough!"

The bellow came from Cragen, who bore down on the four detectives from the squadroom. Fin took a half-step away from Elliot to face the captain Lynde tore her arm from Olivia's grasp to stand at attention, a move Olivia and Elliot matched.

As he approached, Olivia noted that Cragen had on his suit jacket, a light gray that was one of the expensive ones he'd been wearing recently, with his blue silk tie pulled neatly to his neck.

_He's ready to leave... can't he stick around and help us get through one lousy shift? _

The captain came to a halt and glared at each of them in turn, starting with Lynde and ending with Stabler. Although his face was florid and his fists tight, his words were precisely spoken and sharp with anger.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Olivia glanced at Sue, whose blank expression showed she wasn't about to speak up. The deep-seated disgust emanating from Elliot, all of it aimed at Cragen, told her that he wanted nothing to do with his CO. She caught Fin's gaze only to have him look away.

_They're ready to stand mute and let this fester... closing ranks against the brass—but Cragen's never been that kind of brass... it's time someone reminded him of that...._

Without checking for either Fin's or Elliot's approval, she moved from behind Lynde to the front of the foursome.

"We're wondering what happened today. We know John and Judith and it's hard to believe they did what Sue says she saw."

Although she had chosen her words very carefully, but sound of shoes scuffing the linoleum behind her warned that at least one person wanted to get as far from her as possible. Cragen's dark gaze, now aimed at her, seemed to sap the warmth from her bones.

_Shit... I'm in for it now...._

"My office, Benson," he said, confirming her fear. "The rest of you—this ends here. Not one more word about it for any reason. Am I understood?"

The chorus of "Yes, sir" from behind Olivia must have satisfied him because the captain held his arm out, an invitation for her to proceed him to his office. Olivia wasted no time heading down the hall and through the double doors to the squadroom.

_No sign of John or Judith... now I wish I'd called Howie back and found out what the rats were doing with them...._

She waited in front of Cragen's desk while he shut the door. Instead of taking his seat, he remained by the door, his hand on its knob as though ready to leave again.

"So, that was a friendly discussion about whether Detective Lynde is a liar or not?"

The flat, hard tone of his voice finished chilling her.

_He usually uses understatement to defuse a situation... ironic humor with a twinkle in his eyes to let us know we're wrong, but he understands... but not this time... _

"No, sir," she replied, choosing discretion over honestly. "I know Sue too well to call her a liar."

The two seconds it took him to weigh her answer drove the lesson home.

_Fin's right... taking on Sullivan affected all of us, but it warped Cragen beyond recognition...._

"That discussion is over," he told her. You and Howie will run the shift meeting. Call me for emergencies."

He indicated the interview room adjoining his office with a flick of his hand.

"Right now, Munch and Otten are in the crib. Have everyone ignore them—no conversation, no assistance, no nothing."

The info caught her off-guard, but she held herself in check.

"We're shunning them?

"That's as good a word for it as any. If you see either of them without the other, let me know."

She barely had time to say "Yes, sir" before he was out the door. Through the Venetian blinds, she saw him head through the outer door and down the hall without a word to anyone.

Olivia slumped against the wall behind her, a move that jarred the photos and memorabilia hung upon it.

_He left here like a bat out of hell... like he hates this place... hates it and us...._

For the first time since she joined the unit, Olivia realized that something could drive her to transfer.

_The job is hard enough with a good CO's support... if Cragen doesn't get that promotion—if he's stuck here forever... then I'm out of here... no way I'll keep serving under him like this...._


	27. Rebuilding: part two

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
11 July

Rather than gather around the shift leaders by Cragen's office for the shift meeting, Howie's detectives stood by the hallway door, ready to make a swift getaway at meeting's end. Elliot and Fin leaned against the wall to Olivia's left.

_Keeping me between them and us... thanks, guys...._

Couch came in right before the meeting began. Other than a bit of redness, his nose looked normal. Olivia couldn't say the same for his demeanor and expression.

_Didn't think I'd ever see someone out-scowl Fin, but that's exactly what Couch did when he saw Judith's vacant desk...._

Howie handled the situation with Munch and Otten as part of his report.

_Disciplinary action... assigned to work cold cases... render no assistance... sounds good, until I think about the disgust in Cragen's voice when he told me about it... this isn't punishment—it feels more like revenge...._

As Olivia was finishing her update on cases, Chloe handed her an Action Sheet fresh from the fax machine. She noted the source, "Office of the Deputy Commissioner, Public Information", before reading it through. Howie read over her shoulder while she went through it again.  
_  
Son of a bitch.... this makes no sense... no sense at all...._

"I'll announce it if you want," Howie whispered.

She shook her head.  
_  
It's my job... my people...._

"This morning," she said, her voice shaking despite the tightness in her throat, "there was a raid on a drug house in Brooklyn. The purpose of the raid was to capture the person suspected of shooting Detectives Fred Tierney and Tammy White and two civilians on July fifth. During the raid, the suspect attempted to draw on NYPD detectives and was shot and killed.

"All right!"

The exclamation came from both Elliot and Fin. Couch's scowl curved into a grin. The same elation brightened the faces of every person in the room.

_Street justice for a cop-killer does that to us... but this—this isn't....  
_  
Olivia drew in a breath and continued.

"The suspect was Jason Meade, age eleven. Meade had been kidnapped from a mall in Missouri seven years earlier and was—"

Elliot interrupted her. "But that's the witness!"

"Yeah, the kid everyone's been looking for," Fin added. "What the hell?"

"All I know," Olivia told them, "is this. It's the official release that the media will get now that we've seen it. It doesn't say who shot Meade or why he shot Fred and Tammy. It just goes on about  
Dominick Anacacis, the guy Meade has been with all these years, and his drug dealings."

"Shit. That don't make no sense."

"Nothing's made sense in weeks," Elliot groused in reply to Fin. "You expect it to start now?"

"Certainly be nice if it did," Couch responded.

By the door, Howie's detectives reacted with puzzled looks and mutterings. Olivia was about to ask why when Howie spoke up.

"Fontana was in here earlier. He looked rough, almost like he was having a heart attack or something. Didn't make any sense at the time but, if he's the one who took Meade out...."

Elliot's laugh barked over his words.

"'Didn't make any sense'—just like the rest of the crap around here."

The meeting ended with that cheerful note. As soon as Howie's shift cleared out, Officer Taylor went over to Couch. They stood by the window and talked while the other three detectives headed for their desks. Olivia noted that Elliot and Fin did exactly what she did—take a long look at the two empty desks as though remembering the detectives who should be sitting at them.

"It's wrong," Fin said to no one in particular. "Getting shot by a kid like that."

"John called it," Elliot noted. "The day it happened. Some of us were talking at the coffee pot and he said the kid had to be more than a witness."

"So the blind squirrel finally found a nut. Did anyone believe him?"

"'Sue called it a crackpot theory," he replied. "We all agreed with her and he shut up about it."

The three of them turned their attention to John's vacant desk, where his morning mug of tea, a paper tag dangling by its handle, still sat by his phone. Olivia then turned to Judith's desk. Her notepad, left open from her work on the Dykeman reports, still lay by her keyboard.

_It's like a cheesy horror movie... two by two, we keep disappearing...._

"Olivia?"

At the sound of her partner's voice, she spun around to face him.

"I didn't get a chance to call you," Elliot said. "Did you want something?"

She pointed to where Taylor and Sofarelli were talking.

"You should talk to Couch."

The cold glint in his eyes showed how unwelcome her suggestion was, but Olivia ignored the warning

"His partner fucked up and left him hanging. Couch may be new here, but he's one of us and we need to be there for him..."

Olivia then set both elbows on her desk and leaned closer to her partner.

"...and because he was your rookie and you're not the kind of man who forgets that."

She braced herself for the argument she knew was coming.

_If you get angry about him replacing as lead, I'll point out that I'm the replacement—not Couch... the lies are Cragen's fault, not Couch's... doesn't matter what we think about it—we can't function as a team if we treat Couch like an outsider...._

To her surprise, Elliot nodded.

"As soon as they're done," he said. "Got any hot sauce."

"For what?"

"I hear it goes good with crow," he replied. "You're not the only one eating a helping of it today."

Twenty minutes passed before Elliot decided the time was right to get right with Sofarelli. Officer Taylor finished talking to him not long after Olivia's suggesion, but Couch immediately left the squadroom. His expression and quick pace told Elliot that he needed time alone to cool off.

When Sofarelli returned, he went to Judith's computer and saved the report still open on her screen then he reopened it on his own machine.

_If he's calmed down enough to do paperwork, then this is as good a time as any...._

Elliot crossed the room and snagged the chair from the desk behind Couch. He spun it around and sat down, his arms on his knees, body leaning toward the younger man.

_Look friendly, interested... try and put him at ease...._

"You doing okay?"

Couch turned his head from his computer barely enough to see Elliot, but not far enough to welcome his interruption.

"Your nose bothering you?" Elliot asked.

Couch brushed the air by his nose.

"I've been hit harder. I didn't expect Judith to know that move."

"You're lucky your partner can defend herself."

Couch's sarcastic snort was followed by a decent attempt at a British accent.

"Obviously, some strange use of the word _luck_ that I wasn't previously aware of."

In his regular voice, he asked Elliot what he wanted. Elliot glanced at Olivia, who urged him on with a wave of her hand.

_Okay... if you can do it, I damn well can...._

"I want to say I was pissed at being dumped from lead," he replied, "and I took it out on you."

He paused before his next sentence.

_Try for a laugh... God knows we could use one...._

"And I want to thank you for not spin-kicking the crap out of me. You looked like you wanted to."

Elliot watched as the younger man turned to face him. He relaxed as the wary tightness in Couch's face loosened into a crooked smile.

"Yeah, I did," he replied, "but I'd have gotten your crap all over my shoes. I hate polishing shoes."

Elliot nodded.  
_  
Apology offered and accepted... mission accomplished...._

"I figured I'd get flak," Couch continued, "for taking the exam right after being transferred, but you can't turn down that big a favor."

Elliot kept smiling and hoped its shift to faked didn't show.

_Sure you can turn it down... you say "Hey, Cap— Isn't it a bit soon? I've only been here six weeks."_

"Smart move on Cragen's part," he replied. "Now, you owe him."

Couch's emphatic grin told Elliot how good being in debt felt to him.

"Yep, and I want to keep owing him. He's got all the right eyes looking at him and all the right ears listening to him—with that kind of juice, he's the hook I need for advancement. Look what he's done for me already."

"What if Cragen's promotion falls through?" Elliot asked. "There's no guarantee—"

"I know, but this time's different. He's got his record here, a successful contract negotiation, the Chestnut and Erastis operations, the eulogies he gave for Fred and Tammy—Elliot, you heard him. He was so eloquent and sincere, he blew both the mayor and the commissioner away."

Couch's hands, held out and open, and the worshipful brightness in his eyes, told Stabler all he needed to know.

_Al didn't just find a hook—he's hooked...._

Elliot sat back, using the motion to hide his surprise.

_His last C.O. must have been a real asshole if he admires the way Cragen's acting now...._

He pointed his thumb at Judith's vacant desk.  
_  
Let's try a leading questions... see how hooked he really is...._

"I'm sure he showed the same amount of leadership this morning with John and Judith."

Couch quickly glanced over his shoulder to where his partner should have been sitting.

"Yep. Thing is, I wish he hadn't. Been better if he'd turned them over to IAB."

Elliot sat up so fast, the chair under him slid backwards.

"Damn it, Al. You can't mean that."

"I'm serious, Elliot. This morning wasn't the first time they got physical. Taylor was telling me he broke up a fight between them last week. With that and this morning and everything else...."

Olivia broke into their conversation.

"Sorry, guys, but I need the two of you."

She rolled her chair backward to Fin's desk and held out a phone message slip.

"A woman running a daycare reported a man exposing himself to the children there. You handle it with Couch."

Fin took the message and glanced at it.

"This is only two blocks from the 151st."

"Yeah, I know," she replied. "Takes balls to display himself so close to a station house. Elliot...."

She waved another message slip in the air."

"You and I got a rape victim at Mercy General."

Residence of Arlette Wilcox  
567 W. 152nd Avenue  
11 July

567 W. 152nd Avenue was a five-story apartment building built in the 1920s. The narrow gap between it and the next building was fenced with a tall wrought-iron gate at the sidewalk and a tall solid wood gate at the building's back corner. Bright plastic yard toys—a playhouse, slide, turtle-shaped sandbox—occupied the center of the enclosure while plants covered with large white flowers grew in plastic tubs by each gate.

Couch inspected the iron gate while Fin checked the surrounding buildings.

_Another apartment building next door... 24-hour diner across the street with a storefront church next to it—enough people around only a determined pervert would display himself here...._

Up in 3D, Arlette Wilcox, a large-boned woman in black Spandex shorts and a huge Howard University sweatshirt, took time out from making macaroni and cheese to explain why she had called.

"I only keep girls now 'cause girls so much easier to watch than boys. Boys want to run all the times; girls now, they content to sit and play. It don't take as so much energy to watch girls."

The seven little girls in the living room proved her point. Four were playing Shoots and Ladders while the other three were dressing stuffed bears in baby clothes.

"I don't do no Barbies or those other skinny dolls—don't do television, either. Children need to play good games and toys, need to exercise their minds if they want to grow up right. Anyway, you two aren't here as parents; you here as detectives so I'd better get to what brought you here."

She poured a heap of cubed Velvetta into a saucepan of white sauce and stirred it with a wooden spoon.

"This afternoon, right after playtime outside, I heard Ivyanna and Nevaeh talking about the purple worm. I asked them and they told me this big purple worm comes through the wooden fence everyday after supper. Brenda and De'Asia and Jayda, they all say they see it, too. I was going to let it alone, figuring it was a play story they was making up, when Brenda says that the worm looks just like her brother's penis, only big and purple."

She turned the burner under the cheese sauce to 'Low' then poured a bag of elbow macaroni into a large pot of water.

"It's close enough to boiling. So, while the girls were down for naps, I went and checked that back gate. Sure enough, there's a hole in it about three feet off the pavement right behind the Rose of Sharon."

Couch looked up from his notepad.

"The what?"

"The Rose of Sharon. I planted them because they bloom all summer and they don't mind the winter. That one by the back gate—you can tell some man been jizzing on it. The gate keys are on that hook by the door. You go look for yourselves. I have to mind the sauce."

They left Mrs. Wilcox to mind her cheese sauce. Outside, Fin slid on gloves before pushing aside the branches of the Rose of Sharon.

"She's right. There's a hole here."

Couch leaned over his shoulder to see where a knot was missing from the fence slat.

"Looks too round to be natural," Couch told him.

"Get some gloves on and hold these branches back."

Fin knelt down to check the pavement. There, amid fallen blossoms and other plant debris, he spotted a few slivers of freshly cut wood.

"You're right. Someone's been at it with a knife."

He bagged the wood slivers then leaned in to examine the hole.

"See the shine on the sides where it looks slick? We need photos of that."

After Fin stood up, Couch let go of the Rose of Sharon. Its branches slapped against the fence as Fin pulled a knife from his pocket.

"We also need samples—leaves and such."

He cut two leafy twigs from the shrub. He handed them to Couch for bagging.

"Let's see what's on the other side of this gate."

Fin unlocked it and swung the gate wide. A tall chain-link fence woven with white plastic strips blocked the view to the right. On their left, the area was filled with weeds and neglected landscaping all the way to Broadway three buildings to the west. Crushed beer cans, pint bottles drained of their alcoholic contents, and assorted butts—both cigarette and hand-rolled—lined a path worn in the weeds.

"Party spot," Couch commented.

"Yeah, but that's after dark," Fin replied. "Mrs. Wilcox's worm shows up after supper and she's cooking it right now."

He pointed to a overgrown birch ten yards away.

"You find a spot behind that tree. Watch where you step; looks like a place people relieve themselves. I'll get the camera from the car and call you when I'm in place inside the gate."

Once he had the camera, Fin took photos of the hole and the area surrounding it, making certain to include the play toys in the background.

_Not gonna let some defense attorney claim no kids ever play here...._

He then slid the camera into the pocket of his jacket and phoned Couch.

"You in place?" he asked.

_"Yes," Couch answered. "You were right; this tree is a biohazard."_

"Try not to step in anything. Let me know if anyone comes by. If it's our pervert, I'll get a picture of his worm before we bust him."

_"You going to hold him there?"_

The way Sofarelli stressed 'hold' told Fin exactly what Couch was asking.

"Shit, no. I know where that worm's been. You want to hold it, we'll switch places."

Fin leaned against the wall on the near side of the gate.

_"What do you think about that Meade kid?"_

Seconds went by before Fin replied.

"Damn. That's all I got to say about it—damn."

_"Judith said Fontana and Green had orders not to talk to anyone about the case. Guess they were trying to keep this Anacacis from spiriting the kid away."_

"Makes sense. I collared a few of his corner boys when I was still Narcotics. Dude was rumored to be one sick fuck."

_"Hard to believe anyone could turn a little kid into a cop-killer."_

Fin's reply was a mirthless snort.  
_  
...stick aroud SVU__ long enough, you'll believe it...._

The silence remained unbroken by Couch as it stretched into minutes. Fin braced himself against the wall and let the sounds from the nearby buildings surround him.

_... little girls giggling... must be funny macaroni and cheese... people talking across the street... someone practicing a clarinet in the building in front of me... kid ain't bad... sounds better than that yippy little dog right above my head...._

A loud crash and shouting from further down the street reminded him how glad he was not to be in uniform any more.

_Hated domestic disturbances... nobody thinks cops is heroes when we come to bust up those fights... women stick to their men no matter how bad they get beaten and men stick to their women no matter how much they bitch and hit back...._

The sound of his name from his phone brought him back to the present.

"Guy just turned in from Broadway heading our way."

"Got it."

Fin set his phone on the top of the plastic play slide then he listened for the approach of their pervert. Feet scuffling through the weeds told him that the suspect has stopped on the other side of the fence. He leaned against the fence, careful to not make a sound, and aimed the camera at the hole.

Through the view finder, he saw two fingers spread a thick clear paste around the inside of the hole.

_... fence foreplay...._

He took four photos of the action then waited. As soon as the offending penis appeared, he took three more photos then pushed the gate open with his left hand.

"Cheese!"

His next shot was of a pelvis clad in blue jeans, fly open, pressed against the fence. A quick refocusing and Fin had the entire pervert in his viewfinder.  
_  
... male, early forties, scrawny, blue Mets shirt—figures...._

Fin took the shot before the man could jerk away from the fence. Couch had him by the collar and waistband before he could move further.

"NYPD," he announced. "Zip it right now or we'll take you in like that."

The man compiled then he tried to twist around.

"What's the matter?" he demanded. "What I do wrong?"

"You displayed your junk to kids," Fin told him. "That's a felony."

The man stopped struggling.

"Kids? T'ain't no kids 'round here. It's just me and my knot-hole."

Couch caught Fin's attention and raised an eyebrow.

_Sure... why not?_

He nodded in reply and Couch forced the man over until his head was even with the knot-hole.

"The other side of your knothole is a day care playground," Fin told him. "That's why we're taking you in."

Emergency Room  
Mercy General Hospital  
11 July

The ER at Mercy General was filled with the casualties of a summer Sunday afternoon: two kids with jammed fingers, a girl whose lip was split in a bike accident, a middle-aged man with a dislocated shoulder, a young man bitten by his friend's dog, an "accidental" stabbing, three generations retching with food poisoning from poorly-stored potato salad, and an elderly woman in a floral housecoat who was telling the triage nurse how she had "gone woozy from the heat."

Stabler and Benson spoke to the admitting nurse, who directed them past the waiting throng to Treatment Bay 6. There, they met with Dr. Neal VanDePol, a resident whose puffy features and pale skin told of too much time spent working double shifts. Having worked with the doctor before, Elliot greeted him with "Hey, Doc—sorry about the Mets. What you got?"

"I have Austin Beckman, age ten," VanDePol replied. "His parents brought him in."

Elliot looked through the glass at Austin, who was sitting on the examining table.

_Brown hair, brown eyes, kid needs to get out and play soccer or something...._

Two adults in their early thirties were with Austin. Each wore jeans and t-shirts; hers read "Western Michigan University," his "Beckman Heating and A/C: We Blow Hot and Cold."

_Kid resembles both of them...._

"Those the parents?"

Dr. VanDePol nodded. "They brought him in after Mrs. Beckman found a pair of blood-stained underpants in the bathroom trashcan. These are them."

He handed Elliot a clear plastic storage bag that contained a wad of gray knit fabric. Elliot slid it into a evidence bag then pocketed it.

"Injuries to the boy?" Benson asked.

"Anal trauma consistent with penetration, some bruising at hips, arms, and shoulders, adult fingertip-sized. Based on the color of the bruises and condition of the other injuries, I'd estimate the damage was inflicted five, maybe six days ago."

Olivia made some notes in her pad then asked, "Did Austin say anything about what happened?"

"No," the doctor replied, "and, since you're going to ask, he isn't showing any fear or anxiety about either parent. There's no fluids—unlike most ten-year-olds, this one bathes regularly. I am running blood work to check for STDs."

"And the Beckmans?" Elliot asked. "How are they doing?"

"Mom is all 'I'm gonna kill whoever did this to my baby'; Dad's still in shock."

Dr. VanDePol shrugged to show he wished he could do more.

"Let me know if you need anything else."

As he entered the neighboring treatment room, Elliot and Olivia observed the Beckmans.

"Looks like Neal is right," Olivia noted. "Austin seems at ease with both parents."

"We'll get the lab to test the underwear—maybe there's DNA present—and ask Mr. Beckman for a cheek swab. Better to eliminate him now than have Cragen and Casey chew on us later."

Olivia nodded. "You want the boy or the parents?"

Elliot turned back to the window and considered the question.

_...male attacker, male vic... Liv stands a better chance of getting anything out of Austin...._

"Parents," he decided. "You go work your magic on the kid."

She snorted at the joke before pulling the treatment room door open. Elliot let her do the introductions, the explanation of what was about to happen, and the request for the Beckmans accompany her partner into the hall for further questions.

_...no complaints from them... just eager to help... that's a good sign...._

Elliot led the couple down the hall to the waiting room. Since those waiting were gathered around the room's TV, the back of the room offered some privacy. He took his seat in a molded plastic chair and gestured for the Beckmans to join him before opening his notepad.

_Paul and Jenny Beckman... married twelve years... Austin's their only child... he manages the family business... she teaches kindergarten at P.S. 75.... she's angry... he's still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that someone raped his son...._

He listened as Mrs. Beckman told of finding the underwear that afternoon when she emptied the bathroom trashcan and of asking her son what had happened.

"Austin wouldn't tell me anything. He just stood there and refused to talk to me. Paul sat down with him in his bedroom talking to him and Austin finally said that someone had held him down and hurt him. That's why we brought him here."

Elliot turned to Mr. Beckman, who had stared at the floor while his wife spoke.

"Mr. Beckman?"

"Yeah," he replied, "that's how it was. He and I sat in his room and I told Austin it didn't matter who hurt him or how, we loved him and we'd take care of him. After a while, he told me what happened."

As he spoke, Beckman's spine stiffened and his hands knotted into fists. He fell silent and his wife picked up the story.

"It was last Tuesday, the sixth. Paul was at work and Austin was spending the night at Zach Melton's house—he's a friend from school. He wasn't due home until 10 o'clock so I figured I had time to run some errands. When I got back to the apartment, Austin was already inside. He said Shelley—Mrs. Melton—had brought him home early. He has a key so I didn't think anything about it. Austin said he was tired and he went straight into his room. I didn't think anything about that, either. What really happened was...."

Elliot held up his hand.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Beckman, but I have to hear this part from your husband. He's the one Austin talked to, not you."

Both Beckmans glared at him, the mother because she wanted to talk her anguish out of her system, the father because he could not bear to say the words.

"I know this is hard," he prompted.

Mr. Beckman's glare shifted back to the floor.

"—but it has to be done," Mr. Beckman said. "I know."

He swallowed hard and resumed the story, not making eye contact with Elliot as he spoke.

"Austin told me that a man he'd never seen before came up to him after Shelley drove off. He asked if Austin would help load some bundles of paper so he could take them to be recycled. The man said he had gotten them down from his apartment, but he'd hurt his back and couldn't load them in his trunk."  
_  
That's a new one... 'help me recycle' as a lure for kids...._

"Austin went with the man around the corner and there was a pile of bundled newspaper by a blue Prius. Austin said the man tried to help him load the papers, but he hurt too much to lift anything so Austin put all the papers in the trunk."

He paused to draw in a deep, shuddering breath.

"The man said there was two more bundles in his apartment and asked if Austin would go up and get them for him while he waited by the car. My boy said that sounded safe enough so he said he'd do it. He took the man's keys and headed into the building.

"Which building?"

"The red brick one on Wadsworth—around the corner from where we live. Austin went up to the third floor but he couldn't find the apartment number the man gave him. He was heading back down the hall to look again when someone... someone grabbed him from behind and... and...."

Beckman paused again to swallow. His wife reached over and placed her hand on his. Motion at the edge of his vision caught Stabler's attention.

_Olivia beckoning from the door...._

He excused himself and met her in the hall, where she stood with muscles taut as though ready to bolt from a starting gate.

_She's got something...._

"You ready for a lucky break?" she asked.

"Not really. I don't believe in them any more."

"Tough."

She held out her notepad, which was open to a page dated 'July 7th.' On it, in her neat handwriting, was an address on W. 185th Street.

"The Beckmans live on the same block where Fin and I picked up James Speck, one of your Erastis pedophiles."

She smiled as she completed the news.

"Speck fits the description Austin gave me."

The next two hours were spent arranging for a DNA swab to clear Mr. Beckman and getting photo arrays to Austin. The boy looked over the twelve head shots and, without hesitation, picked James Speck.

_... a.k.a. Reginald Makin, a convicted child rapist from Vermont... he's now at Rikers thanks to the Erastis round-up... wish every case was this easy to close...._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
11 July

Fin and Couch had brought Dale Reynolds, a.k.a. Mr. Knot-hole, back for processing then Fin scheduled his transport to Central Booking, Both detectives were at their desks when Elliot and Olivia returned to the squadroom at 11:30 p,m.

"Back already?" Fin asked.

"Don't look so shocked," Olivia replied as she took her place at her desk. "Turns out our guy is one of the Erastis pervs you and I brought in. Casey's arraigning him tomorrow morning."

Fin snarled at the news.

"So we didn't get that one in time?"

Olivia shook her head. "No. Our victim was attacked the day before."

"Damn."

"Yeah. Anything happening here?"

"Just Couch and me wrapping up our case, and e-mail from Cap'n canceling our days off until shift change on Thursday."

"Damn it," Elliot said from by the coffee pot. "I'm supposed to watch Lizzie's ball game Wednesday night."

"We'll work something out," Olivia told him then she hooked a thumb at the interview room.

"What's up with John and Judith?"

The answer came from Couch.

"Chloe said they both went home to get some things. I guess they're restricted to the house."

"Grounded and sent to their rooms," Fin added. "Suits the way they've been acting."

Olivia raised her eyebrows at his vehemence then turned to her own paperwork without a word in reply. Elliot stifled a smile at her restraint.

_I don't want to get into it with Fin now, either... we just put the team back together...._

He stopped by Couch's desk and began to read over his shoulder.

"You'd better change that to 'flowering plant'," he said, pointing to the paragraph about how the evidence was collected.

"Why?"

"Because," Fin called out, "you don't want to sit in court explaining how you took semen from Mrs. Wilcox's bush."

Couch winced then made the correction. Elliot leaned back against Judith's desk.

"You know that Tarzan used knotholes before he met Jane?"

Olivia and Fin turned their attention to Elliot as Couch took the bait with a shake of his head.

"It's true," Elliot told him, "and Jane wasn't too happy about it. She decided Tarzan needed some proper sex education so she took off all her clothes, laid down on the ground in front of him, and pointed to her...."

Elliot paused for a moment then said, "...flowering plant."

When the chuckles subsided, Elliot continued.

"'Forget knotholes,' she told Tarzan. 'You should put it in here.' So Tarzan removed his loin cloth and gave her a good hard kick in the crotch."

He waited for the wincing to stop.

"Finally," he continued, "Jane stopped screaming long enough to shout, 'What the hell was that for?'"

"Tarzan replied, 'Tarzan check for squirrel.'"

The three detectives gave the joke the groans it deserved. Elliot mentally patted himself on the back.

_Better us groaning together at a bad joke than at each other's throats...._

"While you're at it," Fin said, "try and work 'xlyophilia' into that report."

"Xlyophilia?" Couch asked.

"Means 'getting off on shit made from wood.' Sounds a lot classier in Greek."

Couch scrolled up a page and inserted the word before he saved his work.

"There," he announced. "All done. Can I buy the first round?"

Elliot quickly checked both Fin and Olivia. His partner nodded; Fin didn't scowl at the notion.

"Sure, Couch. McMullen's?"

Sofarelli blinked as though surprised they had accepted his offer.

"You know somewhere cheaper?"

Olivia turned her monitor off.

"In Manhattan? I wish. You coming, Fin?"

Fin stood up and shoved his chair under his desk.

"I'm in."

"Great," Elliot said, "Let's celebrate a couple of slam-dunks."

_... and well celebrate us as we try to keep it together..._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Author's note: The story backtracks and continues from Munch's POV in "The Defiant Ones" (soon to be posted). "Holding Our Breath" and "Prey and Predator" follow to complete this series. These are crossovers with Law & Order.


End file.
